


Something to Hurt You

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Car Sex, Choking, Drug Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Making Out, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Rape Recovery, Sad Ending, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Suffering, pre-raven boys, raven cycle au, this is a prequel to my other fic never sleeping again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: After his nightmares threaten Gansey, Ronan flees Monmouth only to end up finding refuge with the last person he ever thought he could trust: Kavinsky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This a Rovinsky prequel that I am writing for my tea boys au, Never Sleeping Again. It's pure angst and will probably require content warnings later on. (I'm not great with content tags so if you have suggestions please let me know.) I usually update weekly on Saturday nights (read: in the middle of the night because sleep? who needs it?). Also posted on my tumblr, @dkafterdark

The nightmares were getting worse. In the months since his father’s murder Ronan Lynch had been tormented by increasingly disturbing dreams, waking to find manifestations of his night terrors littering his room. His screaming woke up Gansey and Noah on a regular basis, sending them running for his room. Ronan had to keep the doors locked; he couldn’t share his secret with them, the mysterious gift even he didn’t understand: his ability to bring things back from his dreams.

Then one night Ronan dreamed of wasps. He awoke in the darkness of his room to the dry, rustling sound of wings and insect bodies rubbing together. He was paralyzed from his dreaming and he could _feel_ the prickly sensation of the wasps swarming over him. They were on his face, his torso, his limbs, _everywhere_. Ronan tried to control his breathing, to not hyperventilate and disturb the winged creatures. He had to get them out of here; if even one of them stung Gansey it would mean his death. Ronan couldn’t suppress the shudder that coursed through him, or the cold stress sweat that coated his skin. _You’ll be the death of me_ , Gansey had teased/lamented once. Ronan had denied this statement with his usual snark but now, lying in bed, helpless, he replayed Gansey’s words over and over. _You’ll be the death of me you’ll be the death of me…_

“Please, please, please,” Ronan moaned, though he didn’t know who he was addressing. God? The universe?

“It’s okay, I’m here.” The voice was a whisper, disembodied by the dark but Ronan would recognize it anywhere: _Noah_.

“What are you—how did you get in here?” Ronan hissed. He heard Noah fumbling for a light before finding the switch on the wall. Ronan shut his eyes at the sudden glare and tried not to squirm now that he could see the blanket of wasps coating his body.

“Never mind that,” Noah said tersely. His smudgy, solemn face was creased in concentration. He picked up an empty beer bottle from the floor and approached Ronan’s bed. He held it out next to the wasps and, wonder of wonders, one of the wasps crawled into the bottle, then another. Noah set down the bottle and retrieved more empties that were scattered around the room and arranged them next Ronan. The wasps began crawling into them, slowly but inevitably.

“Wasps like beer,” Noah said, watching the unhurried progress of their tiny, black bodies.

“God,” Ronan sighed, his eyes tracking the insect horde. “Seriously, man, how did you know?”

Noah shrugged. “I just did.” Then he leveled a piercing stare at Ronan. “How did the wasps get in here?”

Ronan didn’t know what to say. He never lied, at least not overtly. “They just appeared,” he said.

Noah’s expression said that he didn’t believe that for a moment but that he would let it go for now. The wasps were almost gone, filling up the beer bottles. Noah grabbed a box of tissues and wadded them up and used them to close off the necks of the bottles. The wasps, now trapped inside, buzzed angrily. Ronan wanted to light the bottles on fire and hurl them out the window but he didn’t want to take the chance that some of the wasps would survive and linger around Monmouth.

“Put them in that box,” Ronan said, pointing at a cardboard box that still contained items he had removed from the Barns. “I’ll take them out to the mountains and get rid of them.”

Ronan got up after the last wasp was safely entombed. He shook out his limbs, trying to get rid of the phantom feeling of tiny legs crawling over his skin. For a moment he understood how Gansey must have felt in the forest, years ago, as the wasps overwhelmed his small body and stole his life. It was terrifying. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t keep putting Gansey (and Noah) in danger. His dreams were out of control, _he_ was out of control. Ronan pulled on jeans, boots, and a hoodie and grabbed the keys to the BMW. He took the box from Noah, wincing at the barely contained host within.

“You’ll be back?” Noah asked. He looked faded around the edges, almost like he was disappearing; Ronan blinked and it was just Noah.

“I don’t know,” Ronan whispered. “I need…I have to figure something out. I might be gone a while. Tell Gansey not to worry.”

“He’ll worry anyway,” Noah said with a small sigh. It was true. Gansey was Ronan’s best friend, as close as a brother, and in the months that he had been living with Gansey in Monmouth his friend had taken on new roles: protector, counselor, ( _father_ ).

Ronan couldn’t stand it anymore. He fled.

The roads were deserted. It was after three in the morning, dead time. Ronan tore through the streets, racing away, away. He didn’t have a set destination in mind; he only knew that he needed to be far from Monmouth and the fragile, mint-scented boy who dreamed of kings and quests. Ronan dreamed of blood and night horrors and a million ways to die. This wasn’t who he had been but it was who he was now and the self-loathing was eating him alive.

Ronan drove into the mountains, the wheels on the BMW screaming as he took turns too fast, the headlights slashing across the empty blacktop and into the trees. He almost hit a deer and had to slam on the brakes so fast that the car fishtailed; he fought for control and then pulled over. His pulse was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his system because a damn _deer_ had almost been the end of him. Ronan got out the car. He was shaky and it took him a couple tries to get the box of wasps out of the backseat. There was an overlook a couple hundred feet ahead and Ronan trudged towards it. He sat on the safety rail and looked out on the dark stretch of the world, trying to identify the golden clusters of lights as specific towns. Ronan pulled a bottle out of the box, hefted it once, and then sent it hurtling into the dark. He waited and listened for the sound of breaking glass and then he selected the next bottle. He disposed of them methodically. It wasn’t therapeutic.

Back at the car Ronan suddenly felt exhausted. He collapsed in the backseat of the BMW, curled up in the fetal position, and dropped like a stone into dreams.

The night horrors were waiting.

—

Pain and shouting and _Jesus Christ_ _where did all this blood come from_? One second the night horrors were ripping him apart with their cruel beaks and talons and the next he was here…where was here? Who was shouting? God, it _hurt_ , everything hurt.

“Shit! Shit, man, we gotta stop the bleeding!”

“Stop fucking yelling at me I fucking know that! Damn it, get me something for bandages.”

“What the fuck, man?! What the actual fuck?”

“Shut up! Shut up! Help me carry him, get him in the backseat.”

“The fucking leather…”

“Fuck the leather!”

Ronan passed out.

—

Ronan opened his eyes. His senses relayed information in those few moments of consciousness and it all came to one thing: he didn’t know where he was. He wasn’t in Monmouth, not in a hospital. It was someone’s room. The ambient light suggested it was afternoon. Ronan smelled nicotine and pot. The sheets were soft against his skin. He turned his head to take in the room. It was cluttered and messy and, most likely, a dude’s room. But whose? Ronan turned his head towards the wall and—

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” he yelled, jerking upright. There was someone in bed with him. No, not just _someone_ , it was Joseph Kavinsky.

Kavinsky was lying on his side facing Ronan, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes rimmed with shadows, his mouth twisted into a leer.

“Easy there, princess,” Kavinsky drawled. “Don’t pull your stitches. It was a bitch getting you fixed up.”

Ronan had registered the pain when he sat up but he had been too distracted by Kavinsky to pay attention. He looked down at his arms, the bandages covering him from wrist to shoulder, and his torso, which was similarly wrapped up. He felt lightheaded.

“I don’t remember…” Ronan murmured.

Kavinsky sat up and braced his back against the wall. He was only wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, his entire body on display. Ronan felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his chest and he wanted to look away. He also wanted to get out of the bed but he realized that he was wearing just as little as Kavinsky and, on further inspection, the underwear he had on was not what he was wearing when he left Monmouth. _Someone had undressed and changed him and…_

 

“What the fuck happened?” Ronan asked, his tone icy.

Kavinsky laughed, tipping his head back, exposing his long, pale throat. The vein there pulsed rhythmically.

“You could say thank you,” Kavinsky said. “I was just being a Good Samaritan. You know that story, right, Lynch? Nice Catholic boy like you.”

“Answer the question.”

Kavinsky kicked Ronan’s leg under the sheet and smiled; drawing out what little was left of Ronan’s patience.

“I found you bleeding on the side of the road, man,” Kavinsky said. “Okay, you were in the back seat of your car. Your arms were all slashed up, the rest of you, too,” Kavinsky motioned to his own torso, thin and decorated with tattoos. “You got lucky, man. Me and my boys got you to the ER, you came round for a minute, passed out, got stitched up, got a fucking blood transfusion, and here we are.” Kavinsky spread his arms out.

Ronan peeled back the edge of one of the bandages and studied the ugly mess of black stitches and red skin. It looked bad. He shuddered. This had never happened before. Why did it have to happen like this? Why was he now at the mercy of Joseph Kavinsky aka scum of the fucking earth?

“Why’d you do it?” Kavinsky asked. “I mean, if Dick broke your heart it’s not the end of the world right? Plenty of other dicks in the sea.” Kavinsky cackled at his own crude joke.

“Shut up,” Ronan snapped. “It’s not like that. I…I didn’t do this.”

“Uh-huh,” Kavinsky said. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out from beneath his pillow and lit up. He offered it to Ronan but Ronan refused. “Seriously though,” Kavinsky said, “what happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ronan sighed. “I need to get back. Gansey—” Ronan stopped. The grin on Kavinsky’s face was so dirty it made him sick.

“Lynch, I think G-Man can go one night without you warming his bed,” Kavinsky teased. He ran his toes up Ronan’s calf; Ronan flinched away.

“Shut up,” Ronan snarled, “and quit touching me.”

Kavinsky took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke into Ronan’s face. “I’m not asking you for any favors,” Kavinsky said with faux wide-eyed innocence. “Look, you shared my bed all day and I didn’t even bother you. It’s nice, right? Getting a little vacay time from being Three’s fuckboy?”

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Ronan hissed under his breath, more to himself than at Kavinsky. He scanned the room for his clothes. He had to get out of here before he committed manslaughter.

“So what’s he like in bed? Loud? Kinky? Does he suck you off and let you call him daddy?”

Ronan snapped. There was no thought process. One moment he was poised to get out of bed and the next he had Kavinsky by the throat, pressed down into the mattress. Ronan was trembling with rage, his body pinning Kavinsky, one hand clapped over his mouth. He squeezed Kavinsky’s throat, making him squirm and buck.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Ronan yelled into Kavinsky’s face. He was overflowing with anger and hate and pain. Kavinsky’s face was red, his eyes dilated, huge and dark and glassy and… _fuck_ …Kavinsky was getting totally turned on by this.

Ronan shoved Kavinsky and toppled out of the bed. His arms were screaming with pain. He searched for his clothes in the piles on the floor. Kavinsky’s ragged gasps filled the air, and then he started laughing. It was manic and loud. Ronan found his jeans, soiled with dried blood, and pulled them on.

“Where’s my shirt?” he demanded, not turning to look at Kavinsky.

Kavinsky chuckled a few more times before answering. His voice was hoarse. “Had to throw it away. Borrow one of mine.”

Ronan _did not_ want to borrow anything from Kavinsky. Already he was itching to be out of the boxers that had been put on him ( _he didn’t want to think about that, about being naked and vulnerable around Kavinsky_ ). Still, he wanted to leave more than anything so he grabbed the nearest white T-shirt and pulled it over his head. His keys were in his back pocket, his phone… _shit_ , his phone was at Monmouth. He hoped no one had tried to call him. He couldn’t deal with any more drama from Declan.

Ronan pulled on his boots and stumbled out of the room. He was dizzy, careening into walls as he stumbled down the impossibly long hallway. The house was huge; he wandered into a living room, then a kitchen, a sitting room, _all these fucking rooms where was the exit_. Finally he found a door that led outside. The sun felt too bright to be allowed; Ronan squinted but the driveway was empty. He walked around to the garage, but only Kavinsky’s cars were inside. The BMW was not here.


	2. Chapter 2

Ronan’s head swam, his empty stomach clenching and churning. He barely made it to the manicured lawn before he was vomiting stomach acid onto the vividly green grass. His arms shook as he braced them on his knees, his vision clouded by black dots. Ronan willed himself not to pass out again; he had spent enough of the last twelve hours blacked out. He struggled to stand upright and faced the massive mansion that was, apparently, Kavinsky’s home. It was obscene, totally out of place in Henrietta. Ronan had no desire to ever set foot inside that house but he needed his car, and the only person who knew where it was located was Kavinsky.

Ronan stumbled back into the mansion, winding his way through the labyrinth of hallways and rooms until he ended up in the kitchen. Kavinsky was slumped over the breakfast bar, a handle of vodka and two red Solo shot cups lined up in front of him. A cigarette was smoldering on the bar, leaving ash on the veined marble. Kavinsky picked it up and took a drag; the smoke he exhaled was purple. Ronan stared. He blinked his eyes. The smoke was still purple. Nothing made any fucking sense anymore…

“Where the fuck is my car?” Ronan snarled. He was standing just inside the kitchen with his back to the wall; he quickly cataloged the room for any weapons.

“Man, relax,” Kavinsky slurred. He poured vodka into the cups and pushed one across the bar in Ronan’s general direction. “I’ll take you to your damn car but we gotta have a talk first.” He got up and swayed before turning and walking off down the hall. Ronan stared after him. Kavinsky had only bothered to pull on some black track pants, which were pulled down so low that they were almost pointless. He moved with a drunken, lumbering gait, his thin torso swerving to avoid crashing into a wall. Seeing Kavinsky like this, half-naked, not in an Aglionby setting, made Ronan feel weird, unbalanced. The two of them were not supposed to mix like this; Gansey wouldn’t like it.

With a sigh Ronan grabbed the cup off the counter and followed Kavinsky down the hall, down some stairs, and into a massive room that looked like a distressed home entertainment center. It was a teenage guy’s trashed fantasy land: a giant screen, movie seats, every kind of video game system, a pool table, a mountain of bean bags. Loud music, heavy on the bass, thumped from the strategically placed surround sound speakers. The walls were covered in images: everything from movie posters to Polaroid pictures to downright porn. One wall was decorated in spray paint and the splatter from paint balls. Bags of Cheetos lay stockpiled on a table next to a minifridge. There was a pervasive odor of pot and something else that Ronan couldn’t quite identify: melted plastic? This place was the antithesis of Monmouth, just as Kavinsky was the polar opposite of Gansey.

Kavinsky drained his cup and fell backwards into the beanbag mountain. He patted the bags next to him, his eyes closed. He looked totally relaxed, boneless, and so very different from the sharp, dangerous version of himself that prowled the dark corners of Henrietta and raced down its midnight streets. Ronan looked at him, _really_ looked, trying to see beyond the legend and infamy. Right now Kavinsky looked like a boy, albeit a somewhat emaciated and tattoo riddled boy. His black hair was mussed and tangled, his tired eyes closed and ringed in dark circles, there were faint scars on his body, and fresh bruises (hickeys, Ronan thought) on his shoulder and chest and along his hip bone, going down… Ronan quickly adverted his eyes.

“Why don’t you take a picture?” Kavinsky asked, his eyes still closed. “I got a Polaroid around here, somewhere.” Ronan scoffed but didn’t say anything in response.

“Oh, fuck it,” Kavinsky muttered. He opened his eyes enough for him to squint up at Ronan. “Lynch, come over here and sit down. I promise not to bite.”

“I’d rather stand,” Ronan said. It was a Gansey line and it felt out of place here. Ronan tried again. “Tell me what’s going on, asshole.”

Kavinsky laughed. “You are so predictable.” He poured himself another drink and fumbled in the pockets of his track pants for his pack of cigarettes. He lit up and exhaled. The smoke was green this time.

“The fuck are you smoking?” Ronan asked, unable to help himself. Something strange was happening here. He felt like he was on the verge of understanding but…

“This is something special, one of a kind, man. A strain of cannabis with psychedelic properties that cannot be found in the waking world.” Kavinsky blew a series of green smoke rings and winked at Ronan. “Want to guess where it comes from?”

 _The waking world…it couldn’t be…_  

“Tick tock, Lynch,” Kavinsky prodded. Ronan stood there, staring dumbly, feeling the world shift around him. He didn’t want to believe it. He was dying to ask, to explain, but his father’s gag order restrained him. _Goddammit._

Ronan swallowed the contents of his Solo cup. The vodka burned, settling in his stomach like the warmth from a fire. He wasn’t going to do this sober. He moved to Kavinsky, slowly, like the air around him was a physical barrier. Kavinsky was smiling like he had won a prize as he refilled Ronan’s cup and watched Ronan down his second drink.

“Atta boy,” Kavinsky nodded in encouragement. Ronan glared at him but finally submitted to his weariness and sat. The beanbags were unexpectedly comfortable, cushy rather than crunchy. Not standard beanbags then. Kavinsky blew emerald smoke into Ronan’s face and Ronan inhaled, accidentally. The smoke tasted like lemon lime Kool-Aid and suddenly the world took on a trippy green tinge.

“Jesus…” Ronan whispered. “What—how—I don’t understand.” He looked at Kavinsky helplessly. The room was spinning. He shut his eyes and leaned over until his head was between his knees. When had he last eaten? What was going on? Why was this happening to him?

“I know what you are.” Kavinsky breathed the words into Ronan’s ear, his lips brushing against Ronan’s skin for a moment before Ronan jerked away from him.

“You don’t know shit,” Ronan growled.

Kavinsky grabbed Ronan’s face, his fingers digging into his jaw, the pain bringing tears to Ronan’s eyes. He thought for one breathless moment that Kavinsky was going to kiss him or bite him. Instead Kavinsky stared directly into his eyes. Ronan could see, from this close up, the red veins in Kavinsky’s bloodshot eyes.

“I watched you, man,” Kavinsky said, his voice quiet and unnervingly intense. “I saw you in the backseat of your car, thrashing in your sleep. You were screaming so hard you woke yourself up and that’s when it happened.” Ronan waited for it, the truth of last night. “I watched your skin split wide open, your shirt go to tatters. There was so much fucking blood.” Kavinsky shivered and Ronan felt it. He vaguely remembered people shouting about blood.

Kavinsky’s grip on Ronan slackened, became a caress. Ronan relaxed into it for a second before he remembered that this wasn’t allowed. “What happened next?” he asked.

“I already told you,” Kavinsky replied. “We took you to the hospital. I had to call in some favors on account of us needing to _circumvent_ the usual procedures.” Kavinsky’s fingers traced down Ronan’s neck, across his shoulder, and along the bandages that covered his arm; this time Ronan shivered. Kavinsky leaned in, his mouth hovering over Ronan’s. “You owe me,” he whispered and the words fell on Ronan’s lips like a kiss. Ronan felt the obligation of those words sink into him. He felt lightheaded, slightly delirious. He licked his lips unconsciously.

“What do you want?” Ronan asked. _God how had it come to this? He just wanted to go home._  

Kavinsky patted this side of Ronan’s face. “Relax. All I want from you right now is the truth.”

“I always tell the truth,” Ronan answered.

“Don’t lie to me, Lynch,” Kavinsky replied. “Now, tell me about your nightmares.”

Ronan balked. His nightmares were too personal, too soul shattering and gutting to be shared with Joseph Kavinsky.

“No,” Ronan said. He stumbled to his feet. He was leaving. This had gone on long enough. He would walk to Monmouth and find the BMW later. The inconvenience would be worth it; he couldn’t stand another second with Kavinsky prying into his mind.

He hadn’t even made it two steps before Kavinsky tripped him, sending him crashing back into the pile of beanbags. Kavinsky was on him in a second, his body weight pressing down on him. Ronan tried to push him away but Kavinsky gripped his wrists hard, digging into his injuries. The pain was so sharp that Ronan cried out and then went limp, anything to get Kavinsky to let go.

“I said you owe me,” Kavinsky said. “Talk or this gets even more unpleasant.”

Ronan squirmed, trying to get away but he couldn’t get any leverage from the squishy beanbags. He hadn’t felt this powerless since the day he had found his father beaten to death in the driveway. His father had died because of their secret and now he was about to be tortured for it.

Above him Kavinsky made a moaning noise. It was fairly obvious to Ronan why. Kavinsky bit his lip and grinned at Ronan.

“It sucks when I’m trying to act like the hard man but end up simply being hard because you won’t stop moving around,” Kanvinsky said.

“You are the worst, you manipulative piece of shit,” Ronan spat.

“Hmm, baby you have no idea,” Kavinsky purred. He ground against Ronan. Ronan went rigid, he didn’t even breathe. This was _not_ happening.

But it was happening, Kavinsky’s breath in his ear, his hands on Ronan’s wrists, his hips moving against Ronan’s…

“Stop!” Ronan shouted. “Kavinsky, get the fuck off me!”

“Oh, the princess is so bashful,” Kavinsky said. Ronan glared at him and willed his body not to respond to having a half naked boy humping him into a nest of beanbags. “I’ll stop,” Kavinsky continued, “if you promise to talk. One little talk and you’re free to go.”

Ronan felt ill. It was the trauma of last night, the vodka and the smoke, and the assault from Kavinsky. He wanted to go home. Not to Monmouth. He wanted to go back to the Barns, seal himself in the house, and never leave.

“Fine,” he managed to say. “Just stop.”

Kavinsky shrugged and rolled off Ronan. He didn’t move far, though. Only inches separated their bodies. Ronan’s heart was racing, his fight or flight impulse pulling him in both directions at once and his body was too weak to comply with either directive.

“In my dreams,” Ronan began, his voice ragged, “there are monsters. Sometimes they attack me, try to kill me. Last night they almost succeeded.” He stopped, unwilling to explain further.

Kavinsky continued for him. “You brought your injuries back from your dream.”

“Yes,” Ronan whispered.

“I bring things back from my dreams, too,” Kavinsky murmured.

Ronan felt the words like a physical blow, like a Big Mack truck that had come out of nowhere and t-boned the BMW, obliterating him and the car in an instant. It was wonder— _I am not alone_ —and horror— _but it’s Kavinsky_. It was a reconfiguration of his world, the lonely, scared, pain-wracked world of being a dreamer bereft and plagued by terrors. _He wasn’t alone, he wasn’t alone_. Next to him Kavinsky rolled over on his side, pressing up against him. _Why did it have to be fucking Kavinsky?_ If God existed, and Ronan was fairly sure that God did, then he or she had a sick and twisted sense of humor. _Why couldn’t it have been Gansey?_

 

“Lynch,” Kavinsky’s hot breath rolled against Ronan’s neck, “speak. Isn’t that what G the Third says? Speak? Fetch? Roll over? Suck—”

Ronan elbowed Kavinsky in the stomach as hard as he could. Kavinsky coughed and gagged, curling up in a fashion that was more dramatic than wounded.

“Do you ever shut up?” Ronan asked. “Fuck.”

“Heh, you say lots of bad things, Lynch,” Kavinsky commented. “I bet you’ll say even more dirty things if—”

Ronan slapped his palm over Kavinsky’s mouth. This was getting tiresome. Maybe if Kavinsky could actually be decent for one moment…

Kavinsky made garbled mumbling noises behind Ronan’s hand but Ronan ignored him. _He needed to think, goddamnit._

“Okay,” Ronan started. “I want proof. Show me something you dreamed.”

Kavinsky rolled his eyes and nodded. Ronan removed his hand and wiped it off on the beanbag; Kavinsky had purposefully slobbered on him.

“These,” Kavinsky said proudly, pounding a fist on the beanbags, “are from my dreams.”

“Bullshit,” Ronan challenged.

“Go on,” Kavinsky encouraged, “open one up and take a look inside!” He was grinning widely, his joint back, squeezed between his fingers as he sparked it for another hit.

Ronan was skeptical but he grabbed the beanbag he was sitting on and unzipped it. The inside was…empty. Ronan stuck his hand inside and felt around but there was nothing but air. The bag didn’t deflate when it was opened, but remained curiously buoyant. Ronan zipped it up and then lifted the beanbag; it weighed next to nothing. He tossed it up and caught it, lost momentarily in the awe of this impossible thing.

The scent of lemon lime distracted Ronan from his exploration. Kavinsky was sprawled at his feet, eyes half-lidded, a small smile on his face; he looked blissed out and, mercifully, quiet. Ronan dropped the beanbag onto Kavinsky’s face.

“Oww,” Kavinsky complained, voice completely empty of emotion or inflection. He pushed the beanbag off and eyed Ronan. “You could have squashed my joint, man. Why you gotta be so rude?” Kavinsky started laughing, then coughing, then giggling. Ronan watched with a bemused expression.

“Are you high?” Ronan asked. It was obvious but…

“Yeah, man, I’m getting there,” Kavinsky wheezed. “Here, take a hit. It’ll help you relax. You smoke some of this before night-night and you’ll dream up some weird shit. Not those fuckers that put you in the E.R., but like this shit right here.” Kavinsky waved the joint around for emphasis. “I been dreaming up beauties like this since before I came to Aglionby. It’s why I got such good cred, man. Everybody wants some of this.”

Ronan inhaled the second hand smoke and he did feel marginally more relaxed. He crouched down in front of Kavinsky, trying to figure out how someone could be a dreamer and not be as fucked up as he was. Or maybe Kavinsky was a different brand of fucked up. He tried to remember what his dreams were like before Niall Lynch was murdered. But he couldn’t get past that memory, the ice cold, rigid flesh, the dark, thickening blood, the sticky remains of his father’s skull clinging to the tire iron. He shuddered and grabbed the joint out of Kavinsky’s fingers, brought it up to his lips and inhaled. He held in the smoke as long as he could, until he needed oxygen more than he needed to savor the burn in his lungs, and exhaled.

“Wellll??” Kavinsky drawled. “It’s some good shit, right?”

Ronan fell face first into the beanbags. He thought _Damn_. He thought _Wasn’t I mad at Kavinsky?_ He thought _Wasn’t I leaving?_ He thought _oh shit…_


	3. Chapter 3

Ronan woke up in a nest of beanbags. His head was pounding and his throat was burning. He didn’t feel like moving or opening his eyes or thinking but the noise! There were shrieks of laughter, shouts (“Dude kill that fucker!” “Shit! Shit! Shit! What the fuck?!”), and the rapid barrage of gunfire and video game sounds. All of this, and the throbbing Eastern European rap, was killing Ronan by degrees. It was a testament to Ronan’s extreme exhaustion—and Kavinsky’s drugs—that Ronan had been able to sleep through the cacophony in the first place.

With a muffled groan Ronan pushed himself up and grabbed the bottle of water that was lying on the floor next to him. He unscrewed the cap and sucked down the contents, desperately trying to rehydrate and get the strange lemon lime taste out of his mouth.

“Lynch!” Kavinsky shouted. Ronan turned and saw Kavinsky leaning over the back of a large couch, grinning at him. Kavinsky was not alone: Prokopenko was nestled on the couch next to him, game controller in hand. He waved at Ronan before picking up a bottle from the floor and taking a long drink. He passed the bottle to Kavinsky and murmured something in his ear. Kavinsky laughed and shook his head, then ruffled Prokopenko’s hair and vaulted over the back of the couch. Prokopenko messed around with the game as Kavinsky moved towards Ronan.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Kavinsky said. “Ready to go home?” He held his hand out, expectant. Ronan just stared. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but it wasn’t long enough to make him feel rested. It wasn’t long enough to make him forget everything that had passed between him and Kavinsky.

Kavinsky was wearing a shirt now, a skintight tank top with a print pattern of marijuana leaves. It made Kavinsky look smaller, somehow, drawing attention to his thin frame and wiry limbs. It made him look like a teenager, not like the Bane of Civilization, not like a dreamer.

“Hey man, if you keep looking at me like that you’re gonna make me blush,” Kavinsky grinned and then stretched, purposefully causing his shirt to ride up above his very pronounced hipbones, exposing those damn hickeys again. “And you’re gonna make Proko jealous,” Kavinsky added in a fake whisper. Prokopenko turned when he heard his name but didn’t say anything. His expression was relaxed and Ronan thought that he was probably stoned.

Ronan tried to speak but his voice caught in his throat. He coughed a few times and then tried again. “I’m not checking you out,” he mumbled, feeling ridiculous that he needed to clarify this for Kavinsky.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky’s voice was tinged in warning, “you’re getting awful close to falsehood. I _know_ that look, man. And it’s okay! You can look, no one’s going to judge you here.”

Ronan felt something in him lurch and twist. He couldn’t put a name to it, didn’t want to think about it. Not right now with Kavinsky leaning towards him, reaching out with his skinny, large knuckled hand. So he kept his mouth shut and grabbed onto Kavinsky, surprised at how cold his hand was, and even more surprised by the scrawny boy’s strength as he hauled Ronan up.

“Looking good, sailor,” Kavinsky said as he pounded Ronan on the back. “C’mon, I’ll give you a lift home.” He gave Ronan a small shove towards the door and then went back to Prokopenko. He said something to him; along the lines of _I’ll be back soon, be good_ and gave him a fond kiss. Prokopenko wrapped his hand around Kavinsky’s neck and Ronan turned away and started up the stairs. He didn’t know what to think.

Kavinsky caught up to him, bounding up the stairs with more energy than any drunken wastrel should have. He smacked Ronan’s ass as he passed him on the stairs, cackling with laughter as Ronan cursed him and yelled threats.

“I can’t help myself,” Kavinsky crowed. He was propped against the wall, breathing hard from his brief sprint. “You’re too fun to tease, Lynch. And also? That ass? Damn. I’ve been wanting to hit that since I first saw you at Aglionby.”

Ronan’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. He felt so…angry? Conflicted? Infuriated? He felt a lot and none of it was positive. And some of it was fucking confusing. But still.

“Would you fucking stop?” Ronan yelled. Kavinsky’s smile slid, just a little. His eyes went from jubilant and playful to dead in an instant. “What is with you?” Ronan continued. “Do I have a sign that says ‘Please fuck with me’? Huh? Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”

Kavinsky’s gaze was weary and he sighed deeply, like this was all too much for him. “I’m just trying to get you to lighten up, man,” he said. “You’re keeping it all in and that’s why you get those fucking nightmares. Because you won’t let loose. You just keep hating yourself and making yourself feel like shit. And you don’t have to, Lynch.”

Ronan bit the inside of his mouth, felt the skin tearing between his teeth, the pain familiar and sharp. Kavinsky was blocking his way, standing between him and freedom. Ronan didn’t want to fight him, which surprised him; usually he was always down to fight. But Ronan also did not want to have this conversation with Kavinsky, or anyone.

“Look, I never say this so pay attention.” Kavinsky moved closer, until he was right in front of Ronan. His dark eyes were piercing, everything about him sharp. He placed his hands on Ronan’s shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

Ronan blinked. There was no fucking way…

“What?” Ronan asked, dumbfounded.

“I said pay attention, man, I’m not repeating myself,” Kavinsky huffed. There was a faint blush high on his cheeks that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Okay…so what are you sorry for, exactly?”

“Agh! Dude, come on, really?” Kavinsky groaned. “Just take the apology and move on.”

“I can’t! I don’t know what you’re apologizing for!” Ronan yelled. His heart was beating so fast. He needed to calm down.

“Because…I wanted to help you but I only made you feel worse, okay?” Kavinsky turned his face away, his hands still propped on Ronan’s shoulders.

Ronan didn’t know what to say or do with Kavinsky this close. He didn’t know what to make of the apology, or Kavinsky’s earlier actions and his incessant harassment. He felt like he was at a crossroads, like in a choose your own adventure book: he had a series of choices, things he could do right now that would either alienate Kavinsky or draw him closer but he didn’t know what to do.

Kavnisky’s cool, bony fingers flexed against his shoulders, once, twice, before falling away. Kavinsky’s expression was unreadable. He moved to walk away and Ronan reached out grabbed Kavinsky’s narrow hip.

Kavinsky turned to Ronan; he looked as surprised as Ronan felt. _What the fuck was he doing? Seriously, What The Fuck._

“I…” Ronan tried to find his words. “You…damn it…” Ronan stopped. “Look, it’s not okay. What you did. All the shit you said about me and Gansey. We’re not like that.”

Kavinsky shook his head. “I know that,” he said. “Lynch, of course I know that. Is that really all you’re mad about?”

“No! I’m mad because you think you can do whatever you want to me because you saved my life! That’s bullshit, man. I don’t want you…doing things to me.” Ronan paused and looked down, staring at the bloodstains on his jeans. He let go of Kavinsky and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and exhaling. “You should ask,” he whispered, “before you…you know…you should _always_ ask.”

“Okay…” Kavinsky shuffled closer, the tips of their shoes touching. His voice was pitched low and quiet. Ronan felt like he and Kavinsky were trapped in a bubble of time and space, their words echoing in the empty hallway. “So if I asked,” Kavinsky murmured, “what would you say?”

Ronan’s breath caught in his throat. He was still staring at the floor, at his shoes and Kavinsky’s shoes, at Kavinsky’s hands hanging down by his sides. The space between them felt charged.

“I don’t know,” he managed to say. “Just, don’t ask me right now.” Ronan felt hot around his ears and neck and knew he was blushing. “I just want to go home,” he whispered.

“Home,” Kavinsky repeated. He exhaled and his breath, smelling like watermelon candy, brushed Ronan’s neck. “As you wish, Princess.”

Kavinsky turned and trudged down the hall. All of his vigor and energy drained away. Ronan followed him, trying to sort out what he was feeling. He was too tired for this, too angry and sad. But he was going home. Finally.

Outside the sky was washed in a stunning red sunset. Kavinsky barely looked at it as he climbed into his shiny white Evo and slammed the door. Ronan approached the car cautiously. It was a different beast than his father’s BMW. Its smooth, glowing paintjob and sleek frame triggered an odd desire in Ronan, something childlike and hungry, like he wanted to put the car in his mouth. Which was impossible and fucking weird but Ronan still had to swallow down the saliva that had pooled in his mouth from looking at the car. _Fucking weird._

Ronan got in the passenger seat and Kavinsky started the car and peeled out of the driveway. The house was located in a quiet neighborhood, with a posted speed limit of 25 miles per hour, which Kavinsky ignored. He tore down the street, barely slowing at the stop signs. Ronan was usually a fan of fast, reckless driving but Kavinsky’s flippant disregard of all traffic laws had him gripping his seat and clenching his teeth. They blew by a patrol car but the officer didn’t bother to chase Kavinsky down.

The car was loud and Kavinsky’s music was louder. Ronan could feel the bass in his bones. He could feel a rising sense of wild abandon as the car wiped through turns, the inertia sending him almost crashing into Kavinsky; Kavinsky whose head was tipped back as he rapped along to the music, one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the window. The red sky glowered and the mountains were dark silhouettes. Everything felt dangerous, ominous, unpredictable. Ronan had the impulse of wanting to throw himself out of the car; these impulses were cropping up more and more recently and it scared the hell out of him. He gripped his seat harder and focused on the car, on the speed, on Kavinsky.

They were rapidly approaching Monmouth and Ronan’s anxiety was mounting. He reached over and turned off Kavinsky’s music.

“Hey!” Kavinsky protested, batting Ronan’s hand away. “What the fuck?”

“I need you to pull over,” Ronan shouted over the noise of the car and the wind.

Kavinsky mumbled something in another language but eased the car off the road. They were a few blocks from Monmouth. The lights were on, their golden glow a beacon. From here Ronan could see his BMW was parked outside. He looked at Kavinsky, who grinned back.

“Has it been here all this time?” Ronan demanded.

“Hmm, yeah,” Kavinsky said. “I had Swan and Skov drive it over after we left the E.R.”

“Shit,” Ronan hissed. He could only imagine how worried Gansey must be; it was like a horse returning home without its rider.

Kavinsky, for once, was quiet. He watched Ronan, his steady calm grated on Ronan’s nerves. What was he going to tell Gansey? How could he explain the situation? Ronan shoved his face into his hands. He had been so ready to be back home but now he was dreading getting out of the car and facing Gansey.

Kavinsky’s hand came down on Ronan’s tense back. Kavinsky didn’t say anything, but slowly scratched his short nails across Ronan’s shoulders, down his back, and up again, repeating the motions in a soothing pattern. Ronan kept his head down and his face hidden. He didn’t want to move and break the moment. _Were he and Kavinsky having a moment? Fucking. Weird._

The car engine ticked quietly. It was almost dark. Ronan felt his empty stomach clench. He needed to leave. He needed to go home. He sat up and reached for the door handle. Kavinsky moved his hand to Ronan’s neck and then lightly brushed his fingertips over Ronan’s shaved scalp. Ronan shuddered and squeezed the door handle hard.

“If you have another bad night,” Kavinsky said, “you can call me.”

“I don’t have your number,” Ronan replied. He was staring out the window so he jumped in surprise when Kavinsky tossed his phone into his lap. The screen lit up briefly revealing notifications of missed calls, messages, and voicemails. Ronan turned and stared at Kavinsky, his jaw clenched.

Kavinsky smirked, “Yes, you do.”

Ronan shook his head once, too confounded to speak. Kavinsky had had his phone the entire time. _That bastard_.

Ronan jerked the car door open, climbed out, and slammed it as hard as he could. As he stalked off towards Monmouth he heard Kavinsky yell after him, “Sweet dreams, Princess!”


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Ronan had climbed the steps to the second floor of Monmouth Manufacturing he was trembling. Now that he was within reach of his new home his body was finally starting to go into shock. He had nearly _died_. Kavinsky had saved him; Kavinsky was a dreamer like him. What were the odds? Not so long ago there had been three dreamers in sleepy Henrietta. Now there were two: him and Joseph Kavinsky. And last night Ronan had almost, accidentally, taken himself out of the equation. How would he explain this to Gansey? He couldn’t tell him about the nightmares and he didn’t want to tell him about Kavinsky. But lying was absolutely out of the question; even if Ronan didn’t have a deep-seated hatred of lies he won’t lie to Gansey. Gansey was like a brother, no, he was more than that.

From the depths of Ronan’s memory he uncovered a Bible verse, something like _someone with bad friends comes to ruin but there is a friend who is closer than a brother_. Sixteen years of Catholic indoctrination and his brain was supplying him with proverbs now of all times. It seemed like he only gave consideration to his father’s religion when he was feeling guilty, like his mind wanted to pour salt in the wounds. Lusting after an attractive guy? Have a heaping of Deuteronomy. Feeling homicidal towards your older brother? Feel the weight of countless “thou shall not” sermons. Now here he was, steps away from a potentially disastrous confrontation with his best friend, and he was paralyzed by a cornucopia of guilt and doubt and self-loathing of truly biblical proportions.

He reached for the door when he sensed that he was not alone. Ronan whirled around, his tired body strained with defensive energy, but it was only Noah. Ronan cursed softly. How had he not heard him approach?

“You’re back,” Noah said. His voice was empty and he seemed…different. Less of himself, depleted. He inched towards Ronan and Ronan felt a chill run through him, a cold that latched onto his bones. He shivered and the pain in his wounds intensified. Noah examined him, head cocked to the side. “What happened to you?”

Ronan’s teeth were chattering and he could barely speak. “Accident,” he managed to say. He swayed and almost fell down the stairs but Noah was there to catch him, bracing him against the wall. Noah’s hands were icy.

“Come inside,” Noah urged. “Gansey is worried about you.”

“You were supposed to cover for me,” Ronan muttered, his eyes closed against the pain and sudden nausea.

“Well, I tried,” Noah said, “but you know Gansey.”

Ronan did know Gansey and, as Noah opened the door and led him inside, he hoped that his friend would err on the side of concerned and caring, rather than upset and inquisitive.

The door made a muffled thud as it swung back and hit the wall. Ronan cringed, his arm slung over Noah’s shoulders. It felt like all of his body heat was leaching into Noah, making it harder for him to stay on his feet.

“Noah? Ronan?” Gansey was on his feet in an instant, rushing over. He was an elegant, sophisticated mess: hair sticking up, glasses sliding down his nose, his button up shirt as wrinkled as his khakis. Gansey’s tanned face turned a sickening shade of grey as he examined Ronan. “Jesus Christ.” His voice came out in a strangled whisper. “Ronan…Ronan, what happened to you? God, is that blood on your jeans?”

Ronan had forgotten about the bloodstains. He was grateful that the shirt he was wearing, Kavinsky’s shirt, covered up the bandages on his torso. The ones on his arms looked a bit the worse for wear and Ronan realized that he would need to change them soon. And, God, it had really been less than 24 hours since he had left Monmouth, a box of captive wasps in his arms, and a deep, driving fear in his heart? Less than a day and yet his whole world felt upended.

“I’m okay,” Ronan rasped. Noah lowered him onto the couch and Gansey was right there, his warm hands gently moving up and down Ronan’s arms.

“You’re freezing,” Gansey said. “Noah, grab a blanket from my bed.” Gansey pulled off Ronan’s shoes and dragged his legs up onto the couch until Ronan was horizontal. It felt strange, being cared for like this. Gansey tucked the soft down comforter around Ronan, pressed his fingers to the side of Ronan’s neck to take his pulse. Ronan closed his eyes and shivered. Gansey’s mint scented breath rolled over him and it made him think of Kavinsky, with his candy breath and strong, skeletal hands. Had Kavinsky been like this when he brought Ronan to his home after the E.R., when he tucked him into his own bed and watched over him?

_Why was he thinking about Kavinsky? Jesus Fucking Christ._

“Ronan.” Gansey’s voice was broken. Ronan opened his eyes, looked up at his friends hovering over him. There were tears in Gansey’s eyes, his nose was turning red. _Shit. Gansey was about to fucking cry_. “Why would you do this?”

“I…,” Ronan couldn’t stand it. Gansey thought that he had done this, intentionally. His eyes darted to Noah, who looked grave but was saying nothing.

“You can’t die,” Gansey commanded. He looked both heartbroken and fierce. “I forbid you from doing this ever again. Ronan…Ronan, you have to promise me.” There were tears now, sliding down Gansey’s face. He didn’t bother to wipe them away and they landed on the comforter. Ronan stared at Gansey, mesmerized.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I promise it won’t happen again, Gansey. I’m so, so sorry.”

Gansey was shaking his head, his hands fisted in the comforter. Ronan had never seen him like this, so fragile, so undone. Noah knelt next to Gansey and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Gansey fell into him, sniffling. It was too much. Ronan felt his weariness like a physical weight.

“Listen,” he said, his voice was so hoarse he had to stop and clear his throat. “Gansey you can’t tell Declan. Okay? I swear it won’t happen again, just don’t tell him.”

Gansey turned to look at him, his eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. He looked like Ronan felt. “I won’t,” Gansey said solemnly. “But he’ll notice.” He gestured to Ronan’s arms, tucked away under the blanket. “All that blood,” he shivered, “I assume you’ll have scars.”

Ronan hadn’t considered that but Gansey was right. _Damn it all to hell._

“Gansey,” Noah’s voice was calm and quiet. “Ronan needs to rest. We can talk more in the morning.”

“Or afternoon,” Ronan added. He felt like he could sleep for a million years.

Gansey nodded. He looked dazed, in shock. “Do you need anything?”

Ronan shook his head, “Just sleep.”

“Okay. Could you sleep out here tonight? If you need me I’ll be right there.” Gansey motioned to his bed, which was several feet away from the couch.

“Okay,” Ronan murmured. He shut his eyes, his body already relaxing into sleep. For a moment he experienced a spike of fear, a dread of confronting his nightmares. He wished he had some of Kavinsky’s dream drugs to ease him into blissful unconsciousness.

He heard Noah and Gansey move away from the couch, whispering softly to each other. The mattress groaned as they settled in for the night. Ronan’s anxiety eased a little, knowing that they were both there, Gansey watching out for him and Noah watching out for Gansey. The tight bond between the three of them wrapped around Ronan and he finally surrendered to sleep.

—–

Ronan woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. One second he was sound asleep and the next he was wide-awake, his heart pounding. He looked around, trying to determine what had roused him to consciousness. He pushed the blanket off and stood. The open floor of Monmouth was illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the huge windows. No wonder Gansey had so many problems falling asleep; it was so damn bright. Ronan grabbed the blanket, preparing to retreat to his darker bedroom when he noticed a faint blue glow emanating from between the couch cushions. He leaned down and wedged his hand in the crack, retrieving his cell phone. The phone was blinking a cool, blue circle of light. Ronan’s fingers hovered over the black screen. It was late, too late for either of his brothers to try contacting him and only two other people had his number and one of them was sleeping in the bed next to where he stood.

Moving with stealth, Ronan crept through Gansey’s space to his room, quietly easing the door open and then closed. He drifted around the wreckage and collapsed into bed. Now that he was awake hunger clawed at his belly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in more than a day. Ronan surveyed his room but there was nothing edible in the carnage and he had already consumed his stockpile of beer. He fumbled with a half-empty bottle of water and drank it down, feeling the gurgle of liquid hitting the churning acid in his stomach. It was better than nothing.

Ronan kicked off his jeans and pulled the blanket over his head. Then, hidden under the covers, he finally checked his phone.

As he had suspected, the message was from Kavinsky. Ronan nearly dropped his phone when he opened it. Really, it could have been much worse. It should have been, because this was _Kavinsky_ and when the fuck was he ever subtle? Ronan stared at the image, his brain fuzzed out, like someone had jammed the reset button in his mind. It showed Kavinsky from the shoulders up. His head was tilted back, his throat stretched out long and inviting, but his face…Ronan had to look away. But then he couldn’t help it, and he took a second look. Kavinsky was sweaty and flushed, his eyes dilated and heavy lidded, he was biting his bottom lip, his hair looked like someone had been yanking at it only moments before. The text said, simply and provocatively, _thinking of you_. Ronan felt a sharp, hot surge of desire rip through him. He shoved the phone away from him and curled up on his side and tried to pretend the ache throbbing through him had nothing to do with Kavinsky.

It was several long, uncomfortable minutes before his heart rate began to calm down, before he began to settle. Ronan tossed and turned, trying to go back to sleep. He was still so tired, he _needed_ to sleep, damn it. He imagined what Kavinsky would say, something like “Go ahead and jerk off, it’ll knock you out better and faster than Nyquil.” Ronan flopped onto his stomach and groaned. It was like Kavinsky had infected his mind. He struggled with the impulse for what felt like an ungodly amount of time before finally giving in. This time when he fell asleep he dreamed. Not nightmares, but the content was still disturbing. He woke up clutching a tiny replica of the white Evo.


	5. Chapter 5

Ronan could not believe that he was still expected to go to class. After his thoroughly traumatic weekend he thought that Gansey would give him a pass, tell him that of course he would explain it all to the Dean, that Ronan was in no condition to face the brutalities of Aglionby Academy. He thought wrong. Gansey had dragged him out of bed, shoved his uniform into his hands, and informed him that they would be leaving in ten minutes. Ronan stared at the uniform like it had insulted his mother and pissed on his shoes.

There was time only for grabbing the box of Pop-Tarts and one of Gansey’s fancy bottled coffees before he was shuffled out of Monmouth and into the Pig. Gansey, at least, was respectful of morning silences and didn’t pester Ronan with questions on the drive to school. Ronan scarfed down his blueberry Pop-Tarts and longed for a toothbrush. Once they arrived Gansey gave Ronan a brief once over and stepped up to straighten his tie and try to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt.

“Thanks, dear,” Ronan said sarcastically.

Gansey surprised him by dropping air kisses on his cheeks. “Anytime, darling.”

A wolf whistle and jeers from across the lot announced the presence of the crew team. They were Gansey’s friends. Ronan hated them on principle.

Gansey waved and then grabbed Ronan’s arm to pull him to class. Ronan couldn’t hide the wince as Gansey’s hand closed over his ripped flesh.

“God, I am so sorry,” Gansey apologized immediately, dropping Ronan’s arm like he was the one in pain.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ronan muttered, stalking off to the languages wing. Gansey jogged to catch up to him. “If you were really sorry,” Ronan continued, though he hated himself for stirring things up like this, “then you would have let me stay at Monmouth.”

“Ronan…” Gansey’s voice was pleading. Ronan hated hearing that brokenhearted pitch in his best friend’s voice. “Ronan, you _can’t_ miss any more days. The Dean said. Please, we’ve got to get through this.” Not _you_ but _we_. Ronan wondered when and how he and Gansey had become so tightly knit that they were a single unit. Was it before his father’s murder? Or after? Certainly Gansey’s life had become condensed, he had cut away his extracurricular interests and had taken up full time care of one Ronan Lynch.

Ronan didn’t want to be mad at Gansey, and he didn’t want Gansey to be upset so he shrugged, his mostly empty backpack moving with the motion, and sighed. “It’s what it is. Sorry for snapping at you.”

Gansey patted him on the back before pulling him into a headlock hug. “Don’t worry about class today,” he whispered, his breath smelling like coffee and mint, “you can copy my notes.”

“Pfft!” Ronan snorted. “Like I ever take or copy notes. Now copying homework…”

Whatever Ronan was about to say next was abruptly forgotten because, leaning on the bank of lockers next to his classroom, was Kavinsky. Ronan’s heart stuttered in his chest. He could imagine what Kavinsky must be thinking, seeing him with Gansey draped over his shoulders, whispering into his ear. He wanted to do or say something to dispel the suspicion, to get Kavinsky out of his head because _why the fuck did he care what K thought of him?_

All of this passed through his mind in a second, and then he and Gansey were moving by Kavinsky, heading into class. Ronan’s heart was beating double time, his hands slick with sweat. His arm brushed against Kavinsky’s, the motion quick and casual, meaningless to anyone watching. He felt a brief snag on his pants pocket, the light brush of fingers as Kavinsky slipped him a note. Ronan was so fucking nervous that he almost jumped at that touch, but he kept walking, kept moving, blind and deaf to everything around him, consumed by an overwhelming mix of excitement and terror.

Once he had made it to his seat, while Gansey was distracted talking to Henry Cheng, he retrieved the note from his back pocket. Kavinsky’s handwriting was surprisingly legible and actually kind of cool, the letters like slashes of ink that just so happened to form words. The message was an address, a date, and a time. Ronan was curious about why Kavinsky had taken the trouble to pass him a note (what were they, fucking elementary school kids?) instead of texting him the information. Not that he was going. Still…it was curious.

Ronan spent the rest of the morning stabbing himself with pens to stay awake, doodling in his textbooks, and trying not to think about Kavinsky. By some inexplicable scheduling magic they didn’t have any classes together. Ronan was not sure how that was possible; he had never really noticed but after this weekend he felt obsessed with keeping track of Kavinsky. And, outside of class, it seemed that K was _everywhere_. Had this always been the case? Or was he only noticing now, now that he knew K’s secret? And when the fuck had his brain decided to give Kavinsky a nickname?

By the end of the day Ronan was thoroughly grumpy and stressed. He had successfully avoided Declan and his inquisition about where Ronan had been on Sunday morning (passed out in bed with Kavinsky); he had not been able to ignore Matthew and had quietly apologized for his absence and explained that he had not been feeling well (technically not a lie). Gansey had driven Ronan home and then excused himself to do some follow up ley line research. Ronan felt guilty about not going with Gansey but honestly he did not feel up for it; he was too strung out, he needed to relax. And the only way that Ronan Lynch knew to relax was to get drunk or go racing. Since he was out of beer this necessitated taking a little trip and hopefully scaring up a quick and dirty street race on the way.

Being underage and purchasing beer could be a tricky endeavor but Ronan had found the perfect purveyor for all his alcohol needs: a seedy gas station/general store on the outskirts of Henrietta. It was the type of place where the owner was only too happy to take his money and not worry about his age. The place was so old that there were no security cameras, or a credit card machine. There were jars of moonshine by the register, along with Slim Jims, lottery tickets, and cigarettes. Ronan had convinced the owner to start buying Guinness, for which Ronan paid double its value. He usually only needed to come by every couple of weeks to restock his stash. Gansey hated that Ronan drank but the beer was the only thing that helped blunt Ronan’s nightmares, that helped him sleep, and Gansey wasn’t that much of a tyrant to outright forbid it.

So here he was, at the derelict gas station, buying a couple cases of Guinness, which he smuggled out of the store through the rear exit and directly to the trunk of the BMW. The entire transaction was mercifully short and silent. Ronan sped back to Monmouth, flying down the narrow country roads, enjoying the speed of the car, the way it handled so beautifully. The BMW was stolen, of course, and that made racing it like a thief even sweeter. It was a fuck you to Declan. It was a tribute to his dead father. It was Ronan’s most treasured and hoarded possession. No one drove the BMW but him.

He was nearly back to Monmouth when he _felt_ the approach of another car, hurtling down the street at speeds that were entirely unsafe for in town roads. A quick glance in his rear view mirror revealed that it was Kavinsky. _Of fucking course_. Ronan felt irritated and exhilarated. He was approaching a traffic light, turning from green to yellow, and he tapped the brakes, slowing down. The Mitsubishi screeched to a stop next to him, smoke spiraling up from the wheels. Ronan squeezed his hands on the steering wheel once before rolling down his window. He looked over and saw Kavinksy smiling at him, his lips stretched wide, showing off gleaming, sharp teeth. The sun shone brilliantly and reflected from his sunglasses, making him look like a djinn with fire for eyes. Ronan was immediately struck, again, with the truth that Kavinsky, like him, was not normal. They didn’t fit into the manufactured brand with the rest of humanity.

“Hey, Doll,” Kavinsky called out, “wanna come over and get fucked up and watch porn?”

“No,” Ronan shouted back. “Does that line ever work for you?”

“You would be surprised,” Kavinsky leered.

Ronan shook his head in disbelief.

“Fine,” Kavinsky yelled. “Race you to Gay Boy Headquarters! Loser has to—”

Mercifully the light turned green before Kavinsky could finish describing the details to his wager. Ronan stomped on the gas. The BMW surged forward, leaving the Mitsubishi behind. Ronan laughed, loud and long as he flew down the street, shifting gears and gaining more speed and ground. Kavinsky was making a good effort but Ronan knew he had this race in the bag. He skidded into the lot outside Monmouth, fishtailing in the gravel. The car jerked to a stop and he watched, with no small amount of admiration, as the Mitsubishi sailed by, K’s arm stuck out the window, his middle finger raised in a salute.

Ronan allowed himself a few minutes to savor his victory before hauling his spoils up to his room. Gansey had refused to let him store his beer in their fridge, which meant that Ronan had to drink it at room temperature. He had tried to argue with Gansey that God had intended Guinness to be served chilled but Gansey had very sternly warned him not to bring God into the issue of his underage alcohol abuse. Sometimes Gansey was such a killjoy.

Noah was lounging on Gansey’s bed, making a fleet of paper airplanes out of junk mail and advertisements. He aimed one of his planes at Ronan, sending it with startling accuracy so that it hit Ronan squarely between his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Noah!” Ronan growled. “You almost took my eye out!”

“Almost,” Noah agreed sleepily.

“You want to help me bring this beer up?” Ronan asked.

“Nope,” Noah replied. He rolled over onto his stomach and feigned sleeping.

“Useless,” Ronan muttered. He kicked the door to his room open and settled the first case on the floor. The bottles rattled together. Ronan retrieved the other case and then stripped out of his uniform, changing into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and his habitual black muscle tee. He grabbed a couple bottles and went to join Noah.

“Want one?” he asked, holding out the dark brown bottle. Noah declined. He always did but Ronan kept offering; it was a politeness that he had yet to unlearn.

“When’s Gansey coming back?” Noah asked. His face was buried in Gansey’s pillow so it was kind of difficult to understand what he was saying.

Ronan shrugged. “I don’t know. He was driving out to look at a rock formation he read about in some book about Virginian natural abnormalities or something.” Ronan remembered the chapter and had thought it was interesting, too. But today he hadn’t been able to summon the curiosity or energy for a prolonged trip through the Virginia countryside.

“You got homework?” Noah prodded.

“Shit, probably,” Ronan grunted. He had finished one beer and pried off the top to the other using his teeth. Noah had turned his face to the side so he could see Ronan and his expression was one of silent disapproval. “Man, they’re my teeth,” Ronan scowled. “I can use ‘em for opening beers if I want.”

“Did I say anything?”

“Didn’t have to.” Ronan drank in silence and Noah watched him. They did this a lot, him drinking, Noah there but not saying anything.

Ronan drank so much that he wasn’t even remotely hungry by the time that Gansey returned with pizza. He still managed to eat a slice because Gansey would not stop nagging him. The rock formation lead had not panned out and Gansey was moping over the setback. His mood had not improved when he came back to find Ronan well on the way to being drunk _and_ sprawled on his bed with Noah.

“You both have beds _and_ bedrooms,” Gansey complained, “why must you use my bed as a hangout spot?”

“It smells better,” Noah answered and Ronan added, “It’s more comfortable.”

Gansey sighed and chewed on his third slice of pizza. “Ronan did you do your homework yet?”

“Nope,” Ronan said. He got up. It was high time to make a retreat to his room and spend the rest of the evening listening to music and drinking. Gansey didn’t say anything as he left and that, well, that silence _stung_.

Ronan located his iPod and headphones and queued up one of his favorite playlists. He slumped against his pillows, bottle in one hand, mp3 player in the other. The beer dulled his emotions and senses, and the music took care of the rest. As he inched into sleep one stray thought brushed against his consciousness, like a turtle surfacing for air, _was he going to go to K’s party_? Ronan felt sleep taking hold and he surrendered to it, only slightly troubled that his last thought had been of Kavinsky.


	6. Chapter 6

The week passed far too slowly. Ronan continued to see Kavinsky everywhere when he was at Aglionby: smoking with Prokopenko, Skov, Swan, and Jiang in the parking lot, lurking in corners being shady, emerging from the second floor bathroom of the science building looking like he had just fucked Prokopenko in one of the stalls (and Proko looked pretty smug about it, too). It was making Ronan crazy. And the texts weren’t helping. If it wasn’t provocative pictures then it was extremely graphic messages of what Kavinsky wanted to do to him, usually followed up by a taunting, _you only have to ask_. There was no way in hell Ronan was ever going to ask someone, especially Kavinsky, to do anything like that. But at the same time he was shamefully impressed by K’s imagination and way with words; as good night texts they left him feeling profoundly horny and unsatisfied, which was probably the point.

Finally it was Friday, the day of Kavinsky’s party. Ronan was minding his own business, wandering the stacks of the library—their Global History professor had hauled them there to research for their final paper—when someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him into the shelves of the biography section.

“What the hell?” Ronan snapped.

Kavinsky clapped his hand over Ronan’s mouth, leaning into him and pressing him back against the Churchill biographies.

“Shhhh!” Kavinsky shushed him, placing a finger over his lips, grinning like the world’s most demented librarian. “Hey Lynch,” Kavinsky whispered, “you _coming_ tonight???”

Ronan rolled his eyes and kicked at Kavinsky’s shins until Kavinsky let him go. Kavinsky was laughing quietly, his eyes sparkling with manic energy.

“I fucking love libraries,” Kavinsky continued. “And I _really_ love to fuck in libraries.” He winked lasciviously and picked up a book at random, flipping through the pages, his eyes glued on Ronan’s face. “So, for future reference, the biographies are a prime spot. All these serious, dead bastards watching you bang? It’s one hell of a turn on, man.”

“Dude,” Ronan sighed. “Is this really all you’re capable of talking about?”

Kavinsky shrugged. “We could talk about _you_ instead. Like how you don’t text back. And how you’re not sleeping.” He stepped closer to Ronan, running his thumb over the dark bags under Ronan’s eye. Ronan wanted to slap his hand away but…the look on Kavinsky’s face…it was like he actually cared. “I told you to call me if you had a bad night,” Kavinsky rebuked him, his voice soft, not carrying beyond the cramped space between the looming shelves.

Ronan swallowed down whatever he was feeling and looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I can push back sleep if I need to.”

Kavinsky moved his hand to the side of Ronan’s face, tilting it so they were looking at each other again. He sighed. “I worry about you, Lynch.”

That was a surprise. Ronan wanted to believe it but this was Kavinsky; he had to have some ulterior motive. This time he did push Kavinsky’s hand away and folded his arms over his chest; he meant for the gesture to come off as badass but he suspected that he looked like some kid who was trying to appear tough.

“Come to the party tonight,” Kavinsky urged. “You’ll have fun, you can crash with me, and maybe we can work on your nightmares.”

“Work on my nightmares? How the fuck do you fix nightmares?” Ronan scoffed.

“Man, I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, I got this dreaming business on lock. Seriously. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

 _Well that was intriguing_. Ronan thought about it. If he was being honest with himself he had been planning to go since he first got the note about the party on Monday morning. And crashing with K wouldn’t be so bad, they had an understanding now. As for the nightmares…if there was a solution then Ronan would be a fool not to look into it. He didn’t really care if his nightmares ripped him apart but he _did_ care about Gansey and Noah; they didn’t deserve to meet the terrors that lived in his mind.

“Okay…” Ronan mumbled. Kavinsky’s face lit up, it was perhaps the most pure expression that Ronan had ever seen him make and it made him feel _things_. Which was so damn confusing.

“Niiiiice,” Kavinsky grinned. His phone started buzzing and he pulled it out of his back pocket and glanced at his messages. “Damn. Gotta run, Lynch. See you tonight! Bring something fun to share with the group!” Quicker than thought Kavinsky closed the small space between them and kissed Ronan’s chin and copped a feel before running off. Ronan threw a Churchill biography at his retreating back, narrowly missing him and sending the book over the railing that circled the second floor. Ronan heard the book thud somewhere below, shouts from surprised students, and the angry rant from the very put-upon librarian. Ronan quickly made himself scarce, ducking into an empty study carrel and putting his head down to nap. Hopefully someone would notice K leaving the library and pin the book abuse on him. Ronan grinned to himself and started counting down the hours until the mysterious party.

—–

Ronan was lucky that Gansey had to return home for the weekend, it meant that he didn’t have to sneak out of Monmouth. Gansey had begged Ronan to come with him, and then tried enticing him with the promise of homemade food, but Ronan was adamant about staying in Henrietta. He hadn’t left Henrietta since…he couldn’t even remember. And he had plans, though he didn’t tell Gansey. Noah observed their argument like a referee, calmly refusing to take either side, though he did promise Gansey that he would look after Ronan. Gansey huffed and complained but finally left, leaving a detailed list of contact numbers. Ronan felt like he was twelve years old. He spitefully set the list on fire and watched it burn in the kitchen/bathroom sink. He looked up to find Noah leaning in the doorway, staring at him.

“Problem?” Ronan snapped.

Noah shrugged. “If you want to get arrested for a felony tonight that’s none of my business.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ronan muttered. “What are you saying, Noah?”

“You’re going out with Kavinsky. Again. That’s like literally playing with fire.”

“How did you even know that?” Ronan challenged.

“It doesn’t matter,” Noah replied. “I just don’t think that the two of you should…mix.”

“Eww, we’re not ‘mixing’,” Ronan blushed. He washed the ashes down the sink and strode past Noah. He did _not_ appreciate the guilt trip, especially not coming from Noah. They were supposed to be allies, the two hooligans of the household with Gansey as their exasperated parent/older sibling/responsible leader. He slammed drawers in his room until he found his black leather jacket and collected a case of beer. He had no idea who would be at this party but he wasn’t going to be sharing with the group; this was all for him.

Noah followed Ronan to the door and stared at him so mournfully that Ronan finally reached over and ruffled his dull, messy hair.

“Don’t wait up,” he said, and left.

—–

Ronan would not admit that he was nervous, not even to himself. He rolled down the windows of the BMW, plugged in his mp3 player, and turned the music up. His music had been described by Gansey as “terrible” but blaring it while hurtling through the darkness was one of the few things that set Ronan’s heart on fire. It was the soundtrack for the version of himself that could look at this sad, messed up, post-Niall Lynch world and scream “Fuck YOU” with a dangerous smile on his face. It made him wish he had claws and fangs and venom on his skin, like he was untouchable and lethal. It was one more piece of armor. Ronan kept the music loud and let it encase him, so that by the time he reached the abandoned recreation field he felt ready to confront Kavinsky and whatever the night had in store.

He was not ready.

There were so many people, way more than Ronan had expected. And they weren’t just Aglionby students. There were townies, kids from the public school, even some older faces, maybe college students. And there were girls. Ronan didn’t know why this surprised him, but it did. He wasn’t prepared for so many females, dancing and hugging and kissing. It wasn’t that he hated girls, he just had no idea how to talk to them, they were…unnerving. Ronan scanned the crowd for Kavinsky and spotted him standing in the shadows, talking with a couple older guys. It appeared that some sort of exchange was taking place. Ronan looked away, regretting his decision to come.

The cars were parked in a wide circle around a humongous bonfire, the heat of which reached Ronan as he lurked next to the BMW, parked behind the other cars for an easy escape. Ronan grabbed a beer and climbed up onto the roof of the BMW. The music was throbbing and vulgar and entrancing. It kind of made Ronan want to dance or do other things. It was definitely Kavinsky music. He hated that he liked it.

From this vantage point Ronan was privy to most of the goings-on. He watched some of Henry Cheng’s group getting wasted at the keg, playing some weird drinking game with a group of local girls. The crew team was socializing with the ruby team for once. Hookups were happening in the backseats of cars (which Ronan very carefully did _not_ watch) and in the shadowy eaves of the woods.

Ronan finished his beer and decided to bring the whole case with him. He had drunk four and was feeling pretty good if a little bored (where the hell was Kavinsky?) so he lay down on the top of the car and watched the stars. The constellations spun above him, or maybe he was more drunk than he thought. But the stars were so _fucking_ bright! It was kind of awesome. And maybe worth freezing his ass off on his father’s car in a field surrounded by strangers.

“Lyyyyynch!”

Ronan sat up, wobbling a little as he did so. Kavinsky was leaning against the car, like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Well, the car and Prokopenko, who was half supporting K. They both looked trashed and…weird. Like all gooey. Proko’s lips looked way too rosy and K’s didn’t and Ronan tried not to think about what that meant.

“Hey, man, I’ve been looking for you all night,” Kavinsky shouted.

“I’ve been right here,” Ronan said icily. He suddenly was not feeling good about seeing K or being at this party. “But I think I’m going to go now.”

Kavinsky murmured something to Proko, who in turn gave him a slow kiss before going off to join the rest of Kanvinsky’s crew.

“Ya know,” Kavinsky drawled, “I did peg you for the jealous type. But don’t worry about Proko. We’re not exclusive.”

“Whatever,” Ronan grumbled. “I literally do not care who you fuck.”

“Mmhmm. That must be why you are so prickly tonight, Princess. Because you _literally_ do not care.”

Kavinsky was smiling up at him like Ronan was the best thing he’d seen all night, like standing here in the shadows, provoking him, was all he wanted to do. And it shouldn’t have had an effect on him, but it did.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky was standing in front of him, and Ronan was uncomfortably aware that Kavinsky’s face was about level with his crotch. Kavinsky wrapped his hands around Ronan’s calves, kneading the hard muscles in his legs, tugging at him so he slid forward a little across the roof. “Lynch, come down here. You’re making me feel like that damn prince in Rapunzel.”

Ronan flushed. “Um, right, cause I have such long, magical hair.” _Ridiculous_.

“Stop stalling. Come on, I’m not sober enough to climb up there.” Kavinsky was looking more unsteady by the second and Ronan was concerned that if K kept pulling at his jeans he would accidentally pull them off; though knowing K it would not be an accident.

“Ugh, fine,” Ronan groaned. “Move back a little so I can slide down.”

Kavinsky obliged, stepping back but still keeping his palms braced against the side of the car. Ronan pushed himself to the edge then carefully lowered himself to the ground and right into the circle of Kavinsky’s arms. It was like the library stacks all over again.

“Hey.” Kavinsky’s face was right there, inches from Ronan. Ronan had been shivering earlier, cold and alone, but not now. Kavinsky wasn’t wearing a jacket and yet his body was still radiating heat and as he moved closer, one leg sliding between Ronan’s, it felt like a small patch of summer wrapping around them.

Kavinsky didn’t touch him and Ronan couldn’t decide if he wanted him to or not. He raised his hands, intending to push Kavinsky away, but instead he grabbed onto the front of his shirt, hands fisting in the loose white wifebeater. And then he froze. _What the fuck was he doing?_

Kavinsky’s eyes had gone all heavy lidded and sexy but he just stood there, waiting. It was maddening.

“Oh, fuck it,” Ronan growled. He yanked Kavinsky forward and kissed him. It was fast, over in a second. Ronan’s face was burning and he wanted to disappear. But then Kavinsky was touching him, rough palms cradling his face, guiding him back, parted lips meeting his. There was a taste on Kavinsky’s tongue that Ronan didn’t know, but he also tasted the cigarettes and the alcohol.

Kavinsky tilted Ronan’s head and was kissing him so intently and deeply that Ronan started slipping, his legs giving out. Kavinsky shoved his hips against Ronan’s, pinning him to the car and _fuck_. Ronan moaned into Kavinsky’s mouth; his arms were still trapped between his torso and Kavinsky’s and it was making him feel anxious. He scratched against Kavinsky’s chest, wiggling his elbow until he got free. Ronan grabbed onto Kavinsky’s hips, his fingers digging into lean muscle and bone.

Kavinsky broke the kiss, both of them gasping for breath. Ronan felt shaken, aching in a way that was almost frightening.

“Damn, that was so good,” Kavinsky whispered in his ear, nuzzling against him. His lips brushed along Ronan’s jaw, down his neck. “Man, how do you already have stubble?” He rubbed his smooth cheek over Ronan’s rough one. Ronan’s fingers tightened compulsively on Kavinsky’s hips as jolts of electricity shot through him.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky stopped his attentions to stare into Ronan’s eyes. “Say something, man. You’re freaking me out.”

Ronan couldn’t think. Literally there were no thoughts, just impulses. And they were all shouting _More_. So that’s what he said, his voice hushed and hoarse, the word coming out like a plea. Kavinsky stilled, his attention so absolute that it felt unreal. This all felt unreal.

“Say that again,” Kavinsky demanded.

“ _More_ ,” Ronan gasped.

“As you wish,” Kavinsky promised. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably spoilery but...this is not a story that gets a happy ending. So, fair warning. (FYI: I'm writing this as a backstory for Ronan as part of my Tea Boys AU, Never Sleeping Again.)

Ronan woke up alone. The room was dark, his head was aching from a mild hangover, and he was cold. His shirt was missing but his pants were on which was a relief; the last time he had passed out around Kavinsky he had woken up wearing only briefs, and not the ones that belonged to him. Ronan rubbed his arms for warmth; his skin was still scabbed and sore from the injuries left by the night horrors, but at least the stitches were out and he didn’t have to get mummified on a daily basis. _Fuck, it was cold_. Ronan shivered and dragged the heavy comforter over his body; he had kicked it to the end of the bed sometime during the night.

It was too early to get out of bed so Ronan curled up, trying to generate as much body heat as possible in hopes of going back to sleep. Not that it had felt like sleep. His dreams had been chaotic and confusing and mostly about Kavinsky. Ronan squeezed his eyes closed and shuddered. Last night had been… _fuck_. He didn’t even want to think about it but he couldn’t stop remembering and each recollection sent shocks through him, making his heart pound, and suddenly he was too damn hot underneath the heavy blankets.

What he remembered most, what he couldn’t forget no matter how much he tried, was the feeling of Kavinsky’s hands on him, how good it felt just to be touched. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone had been close to him, even in a platonic or familial way. And no one had ever, _ever_ touched him like Kavinsky had. K’s hands were rough and Ronan _loved_ that, loved the feeling of coarse, calloused palms and fingers sliding under his shirt, across his stomach and up, over his ribs, coming to rest on his chest. Ronan felt a surge of embarrassment and heat as he remembered how K had rubbed his thumbs over his nipples and _then_ bit his neck. _Damn, yeah that had happened…_

The replay of last night never got easier for Ronan to think about, but he couldn’t stop going over every moment obsessively, trying to figure out how the hell he had let things go so far so fast. It wasn’t just the alcohol because really, he had been buzzed but not drunk. Maybe he was starved for attention, any attention. Maybe it was the way Kavinsky kept saying his name and saying, well, lots of things that made Ronan crazy. And maybe it was as simple as feeling good and feeling wanted, after all the shit with his family and all the useless rage that had hollowed him out. He wanted to _burn_ and Kavinsky was flammable as fuck.

And yet, he remembered the moment it all came crashing down: Kavinsky’s hands sliding down his body as he kissed Ronan breathless, his thigh wedged between Ronan’s like an invitation. Ronan had been shaking, falling apart from the barrage of sensations, but when K had tried unbuttoning his pants Ronan shoved him away. K tried to laugh it off, his voice so fucking sexy as he worked his charm, trying to talk his way into Ronan’s pants and damn if it almost worked. Ronan had been pressed against his car with nowhere to retreat, K’s body all over him. He had given Kavinsky an ultimatum: back the fuck off now or never see him again. And, wonder of wonders, Kavinsky had walked away, but not before making sure that Ronan would be coming home with him. The rest of the night was sort of a blur as Ronan drank as much as he could to try and drown out all his useless feelings.

Ronan tossed in the bed, feeling frustrated and exhausted and turned on. He had no idea how late it had been when they had all made it back to Kavinsky’s place. Kavinsky and Proko had stumbled off to K’s bedroom, Skov, Swan, and Jiang had gone downstairs to the basement, and Ronan had picked the first empty guest room. _Empty_. That’s how he was feeling right now. Empty and alone and lonely, more lonely than he had been before last night happened. Ronan turned over onto his stomach and bunched his hands in the pillow that smelled like nothing and no one. What had he expected? What did he think would happen? He had turned K down and then got all angsty about being alone. It made no damn sense.

After trying to find a comfortable position for an unknown amount of time, Ronan finally gave up. Sleep was not happening. And he was _starving_. Surely there would be food somewhere in this giant, echoing house. Maybe even cold, leftover pizza, which was Ronan’s favorite thing to eat when hung over. He fell out of the bed and felt around for the light switch, found it, and recoiled from the brightness. His shirt was balled up next to the bed, smelling like wood smoke and cigarette smoke and Kavinsky. Ronan inhaled deeply before pulling it over his head. He didn’t know when he had cataloged what Kavinsky smelled like, didn’t even know how he would describe the scent. He had the weird thought of how smell was associated with taste and yeah…it was accurate. _So weird_.

Ronan found his way to the kitchen and plundered the fridge. There wasn’t much in there, other than wine and cheese and some apples. Boxes of takeout food were stacked haphazardly on the shelves like wonky Jenga pieces. Ronan took them out and examined the contents, some of them were gross and starting to mold and decompose, but there was a box of Nino’s pizza that appeared to be fresh. Ronan threw out the spoiled food and brought the pizza box to the counter where he slumped and ate half of a four-cheese pizza with jalapeños. He wondered if K was the type of guy to eat super spicy foods on a dare, just to look tough or macho or some bullshit. He gnawed at the pizza crusts and considered how little he actually knew about Kavinsky. And yet…he did know him, maybe not the superficial shit, like his favorite color (probably black) or if he preferred cats or dogs (umm probably snakes or bats) but he did know who K was at his very core: he was a dreamer.

Suddenly Ronan was tired of waiting. K had promised to help him find a solution to his nightmares, had promised to be there for him. So where was he? Ronan didn’t care if it was seven am on a Saturday morning after they had all been partying half the night. He wanted answers.

He set off to find Kavinsky’s bedroom, not really sure what he would do once he was there. Obviously he was going to wake Kavinsky up and then…his heart was throbbing again. _Shit_! _Focus, Lynch, focus_. He would wake K up and they would talk, just talk, and then he would go back to Monmouth and they would all live happily ever after, the end.

Except that’s not what happened. Ronan found Kavinsky’s room, his hand was on the doorknob, ready to turn it and enter but then he heard…noises. Dull thuds, grunts, someone moaning. Ronan’s face burned as he realized what was happening on the other side of the door. He heard Prokopenko’s voice, muffled by the door standing between them, and K’s voice answering him. Ronan felt something in his chest twist and he clenched his hands into fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He turned and walked away. Really, what had he expected? This was _Kavinsky_. Of course he was with Prokopenko right now. Of fucking course.  Ronan felt like laughing. He felt sick and he didn’t want to think about why he was so affected. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought _that could be me, if I didn’t push K away last night_. And that was a truly horrifying thought.

Back in the guest room Ronan fell onto the bed and tried not to think. Tried and failed. He should go back to Monmouth but he didn’t want to be there alone, too. Gansey was gone for the weekend, Noah would be there but Noah was being judgmental and Ronan couldn’t deal with that right now. If he stayed here there was still a chance that K could help him, he just need to shut down this ridiculous ache in his chest and forget that last night had ever happened.

At some point his exhaustion kicked in and Ronan fell asleep but his dreams were haunted by his experiences, offering him glimpses of what could be in startling detail. In his dreams Ronan was the one in bed with Kavinsky. In his dreams he was the one making loud, embarrassing noises. His dreams were not nightmares but they were still frightening and when Ronan awoke he was sweaty and gasping for breath, his heart racing.

Kavinsky was sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching.

Ronan was certain that he was about to die of mortification or a heart attack whichever came first.

Kavinsky’s face was curiously expressionless but his eyes…they were intense. The way K was looking at him made Ronan stop breathing. The space between them was unbearably charged. Ronan was desperate for Kavinsky to do something, to say _something_. This silence was out of character and fucking unnerving.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky said. His voice was pitched so low that it sounded like a whisper. Ronan noticed that Kavinsky’s hands were clenched into fists and every muscle in his body looked coiled tight. He had seen many sides to Joseph Kavinsky but he had never seen this, Kavinsky teetering on the edge.

“You dreamed about me,” Kavinsky’s words burned, scorching over Ronan.

Ronan adverted his eyes and picked at the comforter beneath him. He felt the mattress dip down as Kavinsky scooted closer to him. He closed his eyes and felt his heart kick into overdrive.

“I’m curious,” Kavinsky’s voice was quiet, close. His breath brushed Ronan’s cheek, followed by his lips. “Did you dream about this?”

Ronan didn’t answer but he didn’t move away either. K’s fingertips traced the inside of his arm, from wrist to elbow, bumping over the messy lines of scabs. Ronan inhaled, capturing K’s scent. Was it wrong to want this? To want someone to be close to? To need this kind of touch? Or was it only wrong because it was Kavinsky?

“You think too much,” K’s mouth was on his throat, his lips on Ronan’s skin the only point of contact. “I can feel like, all those thoughts buzzing around. You’re so tense.” A kiss on his shoulder, the light pressure of teeth on skin. “Tell me, what do you want, Lynch?”

Ronan gripped the comforter and gritted his teeth. He wanted and wanted and wanted.

“I want,” he managed to say, panting slightly as Kavinsky gnawed on his collarbone. “I want you to…” a gasp as K licked his bottom lip. “I need your help! With my nightmares.” Ronan finally opened his eyes. K was leaning over him, their noses almost pressed together.

“You weren’t having a nightmare,” Kavinsky drawled. “You were having a sex dream.” Ronan didn’t deny it. “I can help you with that. Make your wildest dreams come true.”

Ronan scoffed. _This_ was the Kavinsky he was used to, one he could easily push away.

“I’m sure you could,” Ronan said. “But I didn’t ask for your help with that. You said you would help me deal with my nightmares.”

Kavinsky huffed and sat back, giving Ronan room to sit up and surreptitiously adjust his clothing. Ronan breathed easier and even felt a stirring of amusement as K sulked.

Finally Kavinsky got up and stood in front of Ronan, arms crossed over his skinny, bare chest. He glared at Ronan, frowning like a pissed off drill sergeant.

“Alright, Lynch, tabling the sexual tension for another time,” he said, “let’s move on to Nightmares 101.”

 _Fucking finally_ Ronan thought, the smile that stretched his lips was sharp and feral. _Time to slay those demons_.


	8. Chapter 8

Kavinsky abruptly left the guestroom, slouching down the hall without checking to see if Ronan would follow him. Ronan felt a twinge of annoyance but he _did_ follow him, at least until they reached Kavinsky’s room. Ronan wasn’t ready to be in there again, especially after what he had heard this morning. He watched through the open doorway as Kavinsky sorted through the pile of clothes on the floor. The vertebrae on his back stood out sharply beneath his skin like knots on a tree. There was a vicious scar on his lower back, a knife wound. Ronan didn’t know much about the specifics of anatomy but it looked perilously close to where vital organs were located. Kavinsky pulled on a black hoodie decorated with the Knife Party logo and tossed Ronan a fleece pullover with the Aglionby crest on the chest. Ronan glowered at the clothing and threw it back. Kavinsky laughed like they were sharing some private joke. Ronan couldn’t help but smile in return. Here they were, Aglionby’s biggest fuckups, bonding over…Ronan didn’t even know anymore.

“It’s cold outside, Lynch,” Kavinsky said as he dropped the Aglionby fleece on the floor. “Ya gotta wear something beside that muscle tee you love so much.”

Ronan shrugged like he was impervious to the cold and to K actually showing an interest in his welfare.

Kavinsky shook his head and sighed dramatically. “I guess I can let you have some of this.” He pulled a flask from the pocket of the hoodie and handed it to Ronan. The metal was warm. Ronan unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Whatever was sloshing around inside smelled like cider. Ronan took a sip and instantly felt warmth seeping into him and radiating out of him. It was…unnatural.

“What the hell?” he asked Kavinsky, his voice low and full of awe.

Kavinsky smirked. “I dreamed up that stuff when I was fucking freezing to death up in Jersey. It usually lasts a few hours. It’s good, right?”

Ronan nodded and gave back the flask. He tried to ignore the way his super heated skin felt when Kavinsky’s fingers brushed against his. One little touch and he was _aching_ for more. _Damn_. He also realized that K must have been drinking this last night; he remembered the way his hands had been so fucking hot, how it felt like summer when they kissed even though he had been shivering from the cold before.

Ronan felt Kavinsky’s eyes on him and blushed self-consciously. _Keep it together, Lynch_. “So you were saying…we’re going outside?” Ronan asked.

“Hmm,” K hummed. His eyes were doing that heavy-lidded sleepy, sexy look that made Ronan insane. It was like they were sending a non-verbal seduction, something like “ _I want to take you right here, right now and have you screaming my name until you’re hoarse.”_ For non-verbal communication it was extremely effective. Ronan deliberately turned away and calmly walked down the hall, barely noticing where he was going. _Lead me not into temptation_.

Kavinsky caught up with him in the living room and guided him to the basement and out into the backyard. There was a paved patio and a very large swimming pool. The pool was empty for the winter and Skov and Jiang were skateboarding in it, executing some sick moves utilizing the shape of the pool and some homemade ramps. Prokopenko was stretched out in a pool chair, shades on and sipping a screwdriver. Swan was sitting at the foot of the chair eating a sausage and egg biscuit and messing around with his phone. He and Prokopenko seemed to be having a debate over the best music to listen to while getting stoned.

Ronan stood back as Kavinsky swaggered out to join his pack. It was so strange, seeing them all together like this, under the light of day, hanging out and joking around. There wasn’t the usual context of racing, partying, or even school. Kavinsky grabbed a chicken biscuit from a McDonald’s bag and went to sit on the edge of the pool, dangling his legs into the empty space. Jiang went by on his skateboard, swatting K’s hand. Skov took the opportunity to show off a new move he had mastered. Ronan felt so alone watching them. He didn’t belong here, in their group. And as much as he wanted to belong to Gansey well, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Lynch! Quit sulking in the shadows!” K yelled at him. “C’mon, get some food.”

Prokopenko and Swan turned to look at him, their expressions mild and curious. Did they know about K? Did they know about him? Or did they think he was just someone that K was trying to bang? Ronan tried not to let these worries show. He had a reputation to uphold: Ronan Lynch was not someone you wanted to mess with; he was hard and fierce and gave zero fucks. Sometimes having a rep to live up to was such a burden.

Ronan dug around in the bag of McDonald’s breakfast foods, choosing a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit and a hashbrown. He carried the food over to Kavinsky and sat down next to him. From here he could hear the music that was playing from someone’s phone, which was at the bottom of the pool. The music was surprisingly chill for this group, and kind of retro, with tracks from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Sublime.

“Skov chose the music this morning,” K explained. “He’s like this California surfer fuckboy wannabe. At least he’s not playing reggae.”

Ronan nodded and took a bite of his biscuit. It was still piping hot. He wondered if K had dreamed up a solution to keep takeout warm, too.

“By the way,” Kavinsky said between bites, “I saw you ate all my damn pizza and cleaned out the fridge. I had to make a food run with Jiang bright and fucking early because of you.” He punched Ronan’s shoulder, more playful than serious.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Ronan mumbled.

“You were sleeping just fine when I checked on you this morning.” K’s eyebrows waggled in an exaggerated manner that made Ronan roll his eyes and punch him back.

“Whatever,” Ronan grumbled.

“Mmhmm,” K winked. He got up and went to grab some drinks. Proko tried to trip him, laughing about something that Ronan couldn’t hear. Swan was now yelling at Skov about his music choices. Jiang was drinking a green smoothie that looked terrible. Ronan munched on the hashbrown, grease coating his fingers, and tried to figure out how K had managed to wrangle this group of guys into following him. It couldn’t just be about drugs and parties because they were here, now, chilling and enjoying themselves. It wasn’t Gansey’s type of scene and Ronan felt guilty for wanting _this_ , too, for wanting the steady, quiet life with Gansey and this hedonistic glory with Kavinsky.

“Dude, you’re thinking again,” Kavinsky said, sprawling out next to Ronan. He had two takeaway cups of coffee, one of which he handed over. Ronan took it and sipped at the hot, bitter contents. “It’s black like my soul,” K joked.

“What a surprise,” Ronan commented.

“Yeah, yeah. Proko drinks that melted candy bar shit from Starbucks. You know, extra chocolate caramel frappe with whipped cream.” Ronan peeked over and saw that Prokopenko did indeed have a very dessert-like drink. “That boy…” K murmured but didn’t finish his thought.

Ronan remembered what he had heard this morning and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “So are you two like, dating or something?”

Kavinsky choked on his coffee and started laughing. “Ha! Yeah, something. I mean, we fuck? But we’re not like a couple, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it? ‘Oh?’ C’mon Lynch, not all of us are built for monogamy and shacking up in abandoned warehouses.”

Ronan sighed. “Gansey and I are _not_ like that. I told you, Jesus. I mean, you know about my dad, right?” Kavinsky nodded.  “I had nowhere to go. Other than Aglionby and I _fucking_ hate that place so there’s no way in hell I was gonna live there, too. Gansey asked me to stay and that’s it.” Ronan huffed a hard exhalation. He was trembling a little, his hands balled up in fists. _Dammit_. Why was it so easy for K to provoke him?

“Hey man, it’s… look, I can’t help it, alright? I just don’t get _you_. And it makes me want to be a jerk—”

“You _are_ a jerk!”

“Well, yeah.” K pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. He took in a long drag and exhaled the smoke through his nose. It made him look like a dragon. A dark eyed, perpetually moody dragon. “Anyways. So I gotta ask…if you and G-man aren’t screwing does that mean you’re a virgin?”

Ronan went beet red instantly. _Who the fuck—?_ He couldn’t even find the words to respond. And it wasn’t any of Kavinsky’s business! _Shit! Not cool, not cool. Abort, abort._  

“Okaaay…well it looks like a yes!” Kanvinsky laughed. He tried to rub Ronan’s head but Ronan ducked away, glaring at him. “Man, it’s no big deal. Like, Jiang is totally a virgin. And a vegan. He’s just…we don’t even know what he is. But you know, now I’m not gonna shut up about virgin jokes. Fair warning.”

Ronan buried his face in his hands and groaned. _Just kill me now_.

“So is it like a Catholic thing? Are you saving yourself for marriage? Or have you not found the right man yet? Because you and me, anytime, anywhere. No, don’t shake your head, Lynch, I am 100% serious, man. I am more than willing to—”

“ _Jesus Christ_!” Ronan yelled. “Could you shut up about it?” His voice was dangerously close to breaking. “Can we talk about my fucking nightmares now, please?”

Kavinsky had a wide-eyed look of shock. Ronan suddenly noticed that everything had gotten quiet and everyone was looking at him. He wanted to disappear so badly. Ronan stood up, knocking over his coffee and spilling it into the empty pool, and retreated into the house. He was shaking, feeling unnerved and exposed and anxious. He stumbled up the stairs and into the living room. The tall, arched ceilings reminded him of Monmouth and he curled up on the floor next to the couch.

Ronan was no stranger to self-loathing but this was different. This was…he didn’t know. So many people judged him for his lifestyle: drinking, racing, not doing his schoolwork, not being that perfect Lynch that Declan and Matthew were. He was the black sheep of the family. He was the one plagued by nightmares. He was the one who relived the trauma of finding his murdered father over and over again. He was used to suffering. But being judged because he was still a virgin? That was new. And it made him feel like he was somehow the most bizarre creature on the planet. It didn’t matter, he knew that, and yet…

He heard footsteps on the stairs and somehow knew it was Kavinsky. Ronan sat up and tried to arrange his face into a mask of not caring. He was embarrassed about running away, about reacting at all. And it didn’t help that he was attracted to Kavinsky, that they had been making out last night and then he had dreamed about them being together. It was confusing as fuck.

K practically tip-toed into the room and sat down cross-legged in front of Ronan.

“I started having nightmares when I lived in Jersey, with my dad. He is—sorry, was—a real piece of shit. Abusive. Violent. He tried to kill me, bunch of times, thought I was like demonic or something.” Kavinsky paused, his eyes distant. “He got my mom hooked on some real bad shit. He beat her up when he wasn’t beating me. Dude was a fucking low life and the people he brought round were just as bad. I didn’t get a good night’s sleep for _years_. Because, when I did get sleep, all that bad followed me into my dreams, right? It was a nightmare, whether I was awake or not. I’d go to bed bloody and wake up worse.”

Ronan felt sick. K’s scars… _Jesus_.

“One night things got…worse. I can’t even remember what all went down, but it ended with me getting stabbed and taken to a ‘doctor’ some guy who stitched people up off the record, for cash. I had to get a blood transfusion, it’s a wonder I don’t have like STDs or something. I was out for days, drifting in and out of dreams. But I knew, even totally wrecked, that I had to do something or I would be dead. So I started planning and dreaming like it was my job. I brought things back.”

There was a sick glint in Kavinsky’s eyes. Ronan could only guess at what K had done to make himself safe. He didn’t want to know.

“Long story short, I did what I had to and here I am.” K spread his hands like a stage magician. “When I dream I have a plan. I know where I want to go, who I want to be there, what I want to do. Like a video game. If I want something specific, I dream that and take it. Our dreams are _real_ , Lynch. We can manipulate them, we can use them. We control the dream, not the other way around.”

“But… _how_?” Ronan asked. “I mean, I don’t go to sleep intending to dream. Dreams just happen.”

Kavinsky gave Ronan a patronizing look. “That’s how normal people do it. We’re not normal—we’re fucking _gods_. Tell me, when you had that nightmare and got all sliced and diced, where were you? What did it look like?”

“I was in a forest.” Ronan felt a chill, heard an inaudible whisper, like some unseen presence was pressing up against him.

“Is that where you always go when you have real dreams?”

“Huh,” Ronan didn’t know why he was surprised. “Yeah, I do. It’s this amazing forest, the trees are so old and they feel, I don’t know, alive, I guess. It’s like magical.”

Kavinsky was nodding. “Yeah, okay, I think… it doesn’t matter. Okay, next time you’re in your magic forest, try to take something. Before you sleep think about what you want and then try to manifest it in your dreams. Hold it, feel it, focus on it—then wake up.”

Ronan had brought back things from his dreams other than injuries. He thought of the tiny Evo he had dreamed after he had spent last weekend here, recuperating. His room was littered with oddities he had unintentionally brought back. Could he really control his dreams to the extent of bringing back a specific object? Could he really stop the night horrors?

“I got some pills you could take,” K was offering. Ronan snapped back to attention. Cupped in the palm of Kavinsky’s hand were two blue pills. They looked like gel capsules except they were glittery. Ronan eyed them suspiciously. Aurora Lynch had told him, as a child, to never ingest things if he didn’t know what they were. (This was after he had eaten some shiny red berries he had found in the woods and vomited for hours).

“No, thanks,” Ronan said. He wasn’t desperate enough to try K’s dreamed up pharmaceuticals.

Kavinsky shrugged and pocketed the pills. “They’re here if you need them. So…questions?”

Ronan shook his head. He would have questions, later. Right now though he was still trying to absorb it all.

Kavinsky leaned in closer, closer, until he was balanced on his hands and knees, his face inches from Ronan’s. He was undeniably sexy.

“Hey,” K breathed. “Don’t ya think I earned something for being such a good teacher?”

Ronan’s heart was in his throat and he tried to swallow around it. He didn’t trust his voice so he nodded, just a little. He wanted the distraction. He wanted…

Kavinsky crawled forward, tilting his face up and kissing Ronan. And Ronan kissed him back, one hand moving to cup the back of Kavinsky’s head, his fingers sliding into his thick black hair. K made a small sound and climbed onto Ronan’s lap, cradling his face in his hands and kissing him deeply. It felt like a detonation, like a full system shock after a reboot. Kavinsky moved in as close as he could, his pelvis pressing into Ronan’s abs, his knees squeezing his hips. Ronan was glad to have the couch against his back, keeping him upright, because otherwise he would have melted onto the floor.

Kavinsky bit Ronan’s lower lip hard enough to make him swear and then laugh. It was intoxicating. Ronan slipped one hand under the back of K’s shirt, until he found the scar. He ran his fingertips up and down it’s jagged contours, making K shiver in response. It felt good, getting a reaction out of K. He moved his hand up, feeling each hard vertebra, then the wing-like shape of K’s shoulder blades. Kavinsky whined softly and sucked at Ronan’s jaw; he would leave a hickey there but Ronan hoped it would pass as a bruise. At the moment he really didn’t care.

He didn’t care when Kavinsky pulled his shirt off. He didn’t care about the bites and dark marks that K left of his neck and chest. But he did care when Kavinsky’s hands wandered too far.

“No,” Ronan managed to say. K gave him an annoyed look but stopped. He took Ronan’s hand and moved it down his body. “You can touch me, if you want.” Kavinsky offered. He was breathless and flushed; he looked so far removed from his usual assurance. And Ronan considered it but… “No, I’m—I’m sorry, but no. Can we just make out?” It felt awkward saying it but K huffed a laugh against his shoulder and it seemed to be okay.

“Sure, Lynch, we can do that.”


	9. Chapter 9

Ronan didn’t like keeping secrets from Gansey. He felt wreathed in them, the silent lies of his heart. In church he had learned about sins of commission and sins of omission, of action and inaction. Not telling Gansey about what was happening with Kavinsky felt like a sin of omission, like the most poisonous lie. But he knew that Gansey would never understand and never accept it. It wasn’t that Kavinsky was a guy; it was that Kavinsky was Kavinsky. Gansey had spent entire hours ranting about how K was a dark stain on Aglionby and Henrietta. Ronan had listened, silently questioning Gansey’s judgments. Now there was no way he would be able to listen to Gansey, or anyone, talk badly about K. _They didn’t know_. They didn’t know about his scars, about his past, about everything he had to do just to keep himself from falling into darkness. Ronan felt consumed with the need to tell Gansey all this but these weren’t his secrets to tell and without that rationale there was nothing he could say that would make Gansey think this was okay. So Ronan kept his mouth shut.

He kept his mouth shut and showered with the rickety door to the bathroom/kitchen/laundry room locked. As the water heated up he stared at his reflection in the mirror that hung from the back of the door. He touched the bruises on his chest and ribs and abdomen, traced the bite marks on his pale skin and shuddered. It felt like his heart was being squeezed and it was difficult to breath because he _wanted_ so much. Ronan stepped into the shower and stood beneath the spray of hot water, eyes closed, and remembered. He remembered the heat of Kavinsky’s breath on his stomach, moments before he pressed his hot mouth on Ronan’s skin and sucked… Ronan gasped and held his hand over his heart. It was pounding almost as fast as it had during that moment. Reliving the memory of K’s hands and mouth marking his body made him tremble, overwhelmed him and shocked him anew. It felt like madness, Kavinsky slipping beneath all of his defenses, getting into his thoughts and dreams, seeping into his skin.

But not into his pants. Ronan had set some very definite boundaries with Kavinsky. He hoped that he would be able to maintain them because just thinking back on everything they had done today, hidden away in the living room and then the guest room, it made Ronan ache and long and need. The hot water was not helping. Ronan felt raw and empty and trapped. He wanted to see Kavinsky again, he wanted to tell Gansey, he wanted all of his secrets out. He didn’t want to feel so goddamn lonely and isolated.

Ronan eventually got out of the shower, his skin bright pink from the hot water, and toweled off. This time he was glad the mirror was too fogged for him to see himself. He needed some space and time to sort out everything. He pulled on a pair of black boxers and a black muscle tee and walked out into the open floor of Monmouth.

Noah was curled up in the middle of Gansey’s bed, clutching one of his pillows to his chest. He looked almost translucent, but surely that was just a trick of the light.

“Noah?” Ronan asked, his voice hoarse. “You okay?”

Noah didn’t say anything; he made a strange whimpering noise like an injured animal. Ronan was at his side in moments, his anxiety spiking because Noah never got sick, he never acted like this. Ronan reached out and hesitantly touched his shoulder. Noah was freezing, so cold that he seemed to be leaching the warmth from Ronan’s hand.

“Jesus,” Ronan whispered. He grabbed one of the quilts from the end of the bed and wrapped it around Noah, rubbing his back, and sitting close to him, trying to share a little of his body heat.

“Noah, what’s wrong? C’mon, man ya gotta talk to me,” he begged. Noah’s body started convulsing and he was making choking sounds. Ronan froze, watching in horror as Noah thrashed on the bed, his eyes rolling back into his skull. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t no what to do. _Oh, Christ, oh fucking fuck what the hell Jesus_

Ronan scrambled off the bed, searching frantically for his phone before remembering it was in his room. He dashed to get it, Noah’s tortured noises following him. His hands were shaking and he could barely navigate to Gansey’s number. He stumbled out of his room, the phone pressed to his ear, _willing_ Gansey to answer.

“Ronan?” Gansey’s tone was cautious, that weary what-hell-did-you-do-now tone.

“Gansey!” Ronan gasped, crouching on the bed next to Noah, wrapping his free arm around his chest to keep him still. “Gansey, I think Noah is dying! What the fuck do I do?”

Noah was making low keening sounds, curling up again, this time around Ronan. He was shivering, his movements getting sluggish. It looked like death. Ronan could feel tears spring to his eyes as he watched, helpless. He was so paralyzed that he didn’t register Gansey yelling. He dropped the phone on the bed and curled up around Noah and he prayed, for the first time since before his father died, Ronan Lynch prayed that Noah would be okay.

Noah’s body went still, rigid. Ronan couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. He rolled Noah on to his back and put two fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse and not finding one. He leaned down and felt the faintest exhalation against his cheek. Ronan’s heart leapt. Noah was still alive!

“Stay with me, stay with me,” Ronan murmured, rubbing his palms over Noah’s cold cheeks, chafing his icy hands. What else did you do for people who passed out?

“RONAN LYNCH!” Gansey sounded close to a meltdown. Ronan remembered the phone, grabbed it from the nest of pillows. “Ronan what the hell is happening?”

“Gansey, Gansey, it’s okay, I think it’s okay,” Ronan panted. He felt exhausted. “Noah was like having a seizure but he stopped. He’s resting now. Oh my God, oh my God.”

Ronan swallowed convulsively, one hand brushing through Noah’s pale hair as the boy slept. His heart was galloping, tripping. He wanted to lie down but he didn’t want to take his eyes off Noah.

Gansey heaved a huge sigh, the sound oddly comforting. Ronan leaned into the phone, wishing Gansey was here. “Come home,” he whispered.

“I am,” Gansey’s voice was resolute. “I need to explain to my family but they’ll understand. Just… don’t leave him. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Gansey hung up and Ronan cradled the phone against his chest, like it would make him feel closer to Gansey even after their connection was severed. It hurt to look at Noah. The sudden fear wasn’t going away and it felt like someone was wrenching his ribcage open. _Not again, not again_. Ronan was sick of death and loss; he didn’t understand what had happened to Noah, he only knew that if Noah had died it would have been his fault.

Ronan gradually lowered himself onto the bed, wrapping himself around Noah’s still body. His fingers dug into the thick fabric of Noah’s Aglionby vest, his face buried against Noah’s back. He inhaled, noticing for the first time that Noah didn’t really have a scent. For some reason that made him want to cry. Ronan tried to suppress the sobs that he felt building in his chest, tried swallowing them down until his throat ached and his abs burned from clenching and unclenching as he struggled to keep it in. _Why was this happening?_ It felt like everything was crumbling around him.

Noah stirred. Ronan’s arms tightened reflexively.

“Ronan…” Noah’s voice was weak, barely above a whisper.

“I’m right here,” Ronan said, “I got you.”

“Don’t leave me.” Noah sounded like a child pleading. It broke Ronan’s heart.

“I won’t, I promise. Gansey’s coming home. We’ll take care of you, okay?” Ronan felt Noah relaxing, bit by bit. “What do you need?”

“’m okay,” Noah murmured. “Than—” he didn’t finish the sentence before falling asleep.

Ronan lay there for an undeterminable amount of time, watching the sun glide down towards the horizon. He didn’t think. He tried not to feel. It was like being in stasis, putting all of his turmoil on hold until Gansey arrived and would take over for him. Ronan was exhausted, done. Deep down he wondered how much of this he could take before he fell apart.

It was night when Gansey arrived, hustling up the steps, and turning on lights. His hair was a mess and his eyes were bloodshot. Ronan felt some small comfort that Gansey had been worried just as much as him. Gansey approached the bed and Ronan moved away from Noah, his joints cracking as he sat up and stretched.

“You’ve been here this whole time?” Gansey whispered, gazing down at Noah.

“Yeah,” Ronan whispered back. “Noah talked to me, briefly, after I got off the phone with you but he’s been sleeping ever since.”

Gansey sat on the edge of his bed and placed a hand on the side of Noah’s face, his thumb brushing over Noah’s cheekbone. His expression was tense and troubled. Gansey did not like problems he couldn’t solve and it was apparent to Ronan that Gansey didn’t know what to do about this.

After several moments Gansey finally turned to Ronan and clasped his hand. His hands were strong, calloused from rowing. His grip had that manly confidence that Ronan associated with his father. Ronan shut his eyes and tried to contain the upsurge of emotions. He couldn’t break down now.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Gansey said. Ronan nodded. They both stared at Noah’s curved back. “I don’t know what to do. Is this a medical condition he didn’t tell us about? I just—” Gansey shook his head in frustration.

Ronan pulled his hand out of Gansey’s grasp and pulled the quilt up around Noah’s shoulders. He didn’t have any words to comfort Gansey. For all the _godly_ abilities that he possessed he was useless in this situation. Helpless.

“We should get some rest,” Ronan mumbled. He grabbed a pillow and settled down to the left of Noah. Gansey looked like he wanted to protest, probably so he could keep them both up all night worrying over Noah, but he nodded, his shoulders slumping. Ronan watched as Gansey changed out of his khakis and Polo and pulled on an Aglionby Crew Team T-shirt and a pair of sweats. Ronan was still wearing the boxers and muscle tee he had pulled on after his shower. He was acutely aware of the marks on his skin that he was sure, under different circumstances, Gansey would have noticed and commented on.

Gansey turned off all the lights in the apartment but the room was still somewhat illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the massive windows. Gansey tossed Ronan a quilt and grabbed another for himself before settling down on the bed next to Noah. Ronan felt his eyelids drooping. He pulled the quilt tight around him, shivering. This wasn’t the first time the three of them had shared Gansey’s bed, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but tonight Ronan felt the winter touch of mortality settling around them and his heart burned. He didn’t want to lose anyone else, he didn’t want—

Ronan fell asleep…

He dreamed…

Nightmares.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: This update is pretty heavy on self-loathing and contains suicidal undertones. And things get kinda NSFW towards the end...

Ronan woke up drowning in blood. He lay on the bed paralyzed, his throat working, swallowing. Blood. There was so much blood. His nose was plugged with it, his mouth full. Ronan wanted to cough, to retch but he couldn’t move. Not yet. His dreams kept him pinned to the bed, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. _Breathe_. He couldn’t. _Don’t panic_. Impossible. _It was just a dream_. It had been a nightmare.

As soon as he was able Ronan moved, vaulting out of Gansey’s bed and rushing to the bathroom. He crashed to the floor in front of the toilet and vomited blood and bile into the white ceramic bowl. His throat burned and his stomach ached and seized. Ronan’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the toilet, heaving and spitting. _There was so much blood._ Finally he was done. Ronan slumped against the bathtub, his head resting on the edge. He was trembling and cold and scared. _God so scared._ Ronan would have rather faced the night horrors, faced any monster, rather than what had confronted him in his nightmare—Declan.

It was unclear how Declan had found out, but somehow he knew about Ronan and Kavinsky. He knew and he had beaten Ronan bloody for it. _“Is this how you atone for our father? You tell his secrets, you let Kavinsky fuck you? You worthless, pathetic piece of shit! You don’t deserve your gift! You don’t deserve the air you breathe!”_ And Ronan had tried to tell him, explain. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. But Declan wouldn’t listen and he didn’t pull his punches. In the nightmare each hit had landed with enough force to crack bone. In the waking world Ronan would have fought back but in the dream he did not. He fell to the ground, curling up and trying to avoid the worst of the punching and kicking, his hands over his ears as if that would block out the hate that Declan shouted at him. _It wasn’t true. I didn’t do that. Please believe me!_ Declan didn’t stop.

Ronan wrapped his arms around his legs, shivering. His face was wet with blood and tears and he wiped his cheeks against his knees. He almost wished that Declan had killed him in his dream, then he wouldn’t have to feel this way: gross and broken and alone. He didn’t know _why_ Declan hadn’t killed him; he didn’t know what had woken him up and saved him. He thought someone had called his name; at that point he had been on the verge of blacking out. _(And what happened to a dreamer who blacked out in a dream?)_ He seemed to remember the sensation of someone grabbing his elbow and pulling but it had only been him and Declan. Or so he thought.

The nightmare kept replaying in Ronan’s mind, the horror and guilt eating him up like acid. Eventually he got up and hoisted himself into the tub, filling it up with hot water. He didn’t bother to undress, the water creeping up over his stomach, up his thighs. His shirt and boxers billowed out around his body. Ronan scooted down into the tub and pushed himself underwater. He let the air out of his lungs and opened his eyes. His secrets felt like stones holding him under. Ronan counted the seconds slowly, tears blending seamlessly with the bathwater. _He was so tired of this shit._

Ronan repeated his cycle of suicidal baptism until the water was cold and his skin was shriveled. The burning feeling of shame had been dulled and now he just felt empty. Ronan pulled off his drenched clothing and drained the tub. He looked in the mirror and took stock of his new injuries: black eyes swelling, split lip, ugly bruises blooming on his torso next to K’s bite marks and hickeys. He inhaled and felt a sharp pain; it was possible that he had a cracked rib or two. A wreck. He was a wreck. _What else is new?_ Last night Noah had nearly died and Ronan had tried to in his dreams. Ronan almost pitied Gansey. Gansey was trying to accomplish the impossible; he didn’t need Ronan dragging him down.

Gansey and Noah were still asleep when Ronan finally left the bathroom, curled up together beneath a quilt. Noah’s head was lying on Gansey’s chest, their arms wrapped around each other. Ronan could have stared at them all day but he had church. Although he never wanted to see Declan again, especially after his newest nightmare, Ronan desperately needed some Matthew therapy. So he pulled on a black button-up, slipped into a pair of black slacks, and tied a black tie around his neck. He paused to check his reflection before leaving. He looked like a gangster, some bruiser for the mafia who tried to dress up his brutality in a suit and tie.

At church Ronan and Declan ignored each other, Matthew sitting between them like the personification of Switzerland. Ronan couldn’t pay attention to the service to save his life. His mind rotated between his nightmare, Noah’s scare, Kavinsky’s mouth on his skin, Gansey’s face pinched by stress, his father’s body. Even Matthew falling asleep on his shoulder did little to alleviate the pressure of self-hatred. The host was offered at the end of the service but as usual Ronan abstained, submitting himself for a blessing that he felt unworthy of. He hugged Matthew before releasing him into Declan’s care. The elder Lynch brother speared him with a judgmental stare but didn’t say a word to him.

Ronan didn’t want to go back to Monmouth so he drove, winding his way down less traveled roads into the countryside, past fields and forests. He didn’t have a destination in mind but he found himself suddenly at the end of the drive that led to the Barns. He braked hard, his heart pounding because _god damn it_ he wanted to go home so bad. It wasn’t fair. He hated the will that kept him from his home, his mother. Ronan slammed his fist against the dashboard, hard enough to split the skin, blood trickling down the back of his hand, soaking into the sleeve of his shirt. It only took the edge off the anger seething inside him.

After that Ronan couldn’t remember what happened. He came back to himself parked outside Monmouth. He didn’t know where he had gone or what he had done. The BMW was almost out of gas and the sun was sinking. A day. He had lost an entire day. But he couldn’t bring himself to care because at least he hadn’t had to think or feel. He checked in with Gansey, who was working on building a model of Henrietta. So far he had Aglionby and Monmouth completed, as well as the main street downtown. He had his earbuds in and didn’t notice Ronan’s arrival. Noah was still sleeping. Ronan went to his room and grabbed a blanket and a six-pack of beer and then snuck out again. He couldn’t sleep under the same roof as Gansey or Noah tonight. He didn’t want to sleep at all but he was afraid that if he did the nightmares would take over and spill his worst fears into reality. The “control your dreams” workshop that K had given him apparently didn’t do shit if your mind was too scrambled. He needed control and he didn’t have it.

Ronan didn’t bother driving to St. Agnes. He trudged through the darkness, the bottles clinking together, his boots scuffing against the asphalt. With each tired step he tried to remember what K had told him about dreaming. But his thoughts kept getting derailed by other things K had said: _You are so gorgeous. Show me how much you want me. I’m gonna dream about you tonight._ Ronan pushed open the doors to the sanctuary, the flickering light of prayer candles casting faint illumination in the empty space. Kavinsky’s words followed him as he climbed the creaking stairs to the choir loft. He sank down onto the padded pew, opened a beer, and tried to get drunk.

Three beers in and Ronan was prone on the pew, reaching blindly for bottle four when his phone buzzed. He had forgotten that he had brought it. He pulled it from his pocket, intending to turn it off when he saw that he had a message from K, as well as several messages from Gansey. Ronan ignored Gansey’s out of habit but he immediately opened Kavinsky’s text, heart pounding. It started out innocently enough: **hey lynch thinking abt u…** The next text came seconds later: … **in my bed wearing yr stupid muscle t & my briefs. **Ronan curled up on the pew, the phone held in front of his face as he waited for the next message. He didn’t wait long. Over the next half hour Kavinsky described in vulgar detail exactly what he was fantasizing about until Ronan was hard and aching, feeling incredibly turned on and guilty as fuck.

Ronan turned over, his back to the sanctuary, his nose pressed into the padded cushion on the pew. He smelled incense. Ronan imagined the eyes of all the dearly departed Lynch family staring down at him from heaven, judging him. But then he thought of Declan and decided fuck that. He was so tired of feeling guilty, of punishing himself. So he closed his eyes and pressed his palm against his aching groin, pretending that the tightness from the tie he had never bothered to remove was K choking him.

The next day Ronan was exhausted and school was the last place he wanted to be. But at least he had spent the night free of nightmares or dreams, sleeping soundly on the narrow pew. He swung by Monmouth to change, his church clothes rumbled and dirty. Ronan wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to smell incense again without thinking about last night.

He hadn’t written K back so he was a bit surprised to get another message before his American history class, summoning him to third floor bathroom. Ronan stared at the phone, trying to decide what to do. It only took one look at the whiteboard, covered in a Civil War timeline, to make up his mind.

The third floor hallway was deserted by the time Ronan made it to the bathroom. He stood for a moment outside, one hand pressed to the door. He was done lying to himself about what he wanted, but there was a vast gap between wanting and doing, fantasy and reality. If he walked in there he was making a clear choice, moving from passive to active. He took a deep breath, trying to summon that bright, hot feeling he got when he was around Kavinsky, like they might combust at any moment. _Lead me not into temptation_. Ronan pushed the door open.

Kavinsky was sitting on one of the sinks and Prokopenko was leaning against the wall next to the hand dryers. Ronan was a little confused to see Proko with K but he tried not to show it. K dropped down from the sink and sauntered over to Ronan.

“Jesus Christ, Lynch,” he said, his hands reaching up to touch Ronan’s face. “Who decided to give you the world’s worst makeover?”

Ronan flinched. Kavinsky stroked careful fingers under his eyes, over his swollen lip. “No one,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter.” He batted K’s hands away. He didn’t come here to be coddled. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah,” K said, smiling widely. “I missed you last night. Did you get my texts?” His hands went to Ronan’s hips, fingers snagging in the empty belt loops of his slacks, reeling him in. His eyes were burning; Ronan felt something hot twist inside him, prompting him to move closer.

Ronan nodded, a deep blush heating up his face. “I got them.”

“Good.” The heat between them already felt searing and all they were doing was talking. _Jesus Christ_. “Proko, you’re on guard duty. Ronan, you’re with me.”

Kavinsky yanked Ronan into the closest stall and slid the lock into place before pushing Ronan up against the door and kissing him. Ronan made a small noise of surprise; the kiss was hard and merciless, Kanvinsky’s teeth tugging at Ronan’s torn lip. It hurt but Ronan liked it. He liked the rough way K handled him, tugging his tie loose and pulling at his shirt until the top buttons came undone, revealing Ronan’s neck and throat and collarbones. K stopped kissing Ronan to admire the marks he had left, which had only grown darker. He pressed his thumb into the bruise below Ronan’s collarbone. It was painful but Ronan bore with it, biting his bottom lip as K sucked at his throat, his lips and teeth and tongue working over Ronan’s sensitive skin. Ronan dug his fingers into Kavinsky’s hair and tugged. It must have been the right thing to do because K groaned and shoved his hips against Ronan’s, making the door rattle.

Kavinsky’s hands tugged at Ronan’s shirt, pulling it out of his slacks and up, over his chest. He saw the new bruises on Ronan’s body and stopped, going still as he put his palm over the nasty bruise that covered Ronan’s ribs.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was a fierce whisper. “Seriously, Ronan. You look like you got the shit kicked out of you.”

Ronan was breathing hard, but he still managed to say “No one. It was a nightmare.” He tried to kiss Kavinsky but K pushed him back, eyes glittering with warning.

“I told you to call me when things got bad.”

Ronan tried to shrug off his concern. “Nothing you could do,” Ronan muttered.

“Fuck that,” Kavinsky snarled. He pinched Ronan’s side, making him gasp.

Ronan shoved K, not hard, but to prove a point. “So I didn’t call you,” he challenged. “Are you going to punish me?”

Kavinsky cocked his head to the side, considering. Then, “Yeah, yeah I am.” The look Kavinsky gave him was enough to make Ronan so hard he could barely stand it. This was all escalating so fast but he didn’t care, he didn’t care. The edge of the nightmare licked at his mind and Ronan forced it away.

“Turn around and grab onto the top of the door,” Kavinsky said. Ronan obeyed without question, his pulse jacking up as he stretched to grip the door, feeling the sharp edges pressing into his palms. K moved in behind him, pulling at Ronan’s hips, positioning him how he wanted before grinding against Ronan.

“Welcome to the world of dry humping,” K said into his ear, his voice tinged with sarcasm and heat. Ronan knew that it was only dry humping, totally vanilla, but _fuck_ , it was a first for him and…he didn’t have words. Ronan pressed back against Kavinsky, his whole body straining and wanting. K tugged the neck of his shirt down, over one shoulder, and bit the back of his neck, his mouth hot against Ronan’s skin. It felt so _good_ , feeling wanted, desired, knowing K wanted to get off with him.

K whispered dirty talk into Ronan’s ear until his face was burning and he was desperate for relief. “K…” Ronan groaned. He didn’t want to say it, he felt stupid even _thinking_ it but he had to ask. “I want…” He couldn’t do it.

“Do you want me to touch you?” The words came easily to Kavinsky and Ronan tried not to think about how often K did this. How many partners he had done this with.

“Yeah,” Ronan gasped. K bit his earlobe and expertly undid Ronan’s pants with one hand, pulling his slacks and briefs down his thighs.

Ronan was trembling. He thought he was ready but…it was one think to fantasize about it, it was something else to be shoved against a bathroom door with someone grinding against you and…

Kavinsky moved with confidence, taking Ronan in hand and jerking him off. Ronan could barely process it all, overwhelmed and starving for more. And K was good, so good, everything he did felt incredible, making Ronan go crazy. He forgot where he was and K’s hand clamped over his mouth, shushing him as he finally brought him to a climax. Ronan slumped against the door, panting. He wished he could have lasted longer. Maybe next time. _Fuck_. He was already thinking about next time. Ronan reached for his pants to pull them up but Kanvinsky stopped him. He pushed Ronan’s shirt up again, until it was rucked over his hips, and cupped his hands over Ronan’s ass and…

“Hey!” Ronan said, whirling around, tugging up his briefs.

“Aww, Lynch, don’t be mad,” Kavinsky grinned. “You just look so good, man. Like I really, really want to fuck you right now.”

Ronan’s hands fumbled with his zipper, K’s words throwing him.

“That’s what you have Prokopenko for,” Ronan snarled. They had already had this discussion; he didn’t want to have it again, especially now.

“Been there, done that,” K replied.

“Hey!” Proko cried out. Ronan blushed; he had forgotten that Proko was still there. He was immediately embarrassed knowing that he had heard…everything.

“I love you, baby!” K sang out, then to Ronan, “Fine, fine. But tell me, that was good, right?”

Ronan tucked his shirt back in even though he was planning to ditch for the rest of the day; there was no way he would be able to concentrate on class after _that_.

“Yeah, it was good,” he admitted, daring to meet Kavinsky’s eyes for a moment.

K grinned and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s been a pleasure getting you off the straight and narrow,” he said with a wink.

Ronan rolled his eyes at the double entendres. “Right. Okay. I’ll be going now. See you.” It wasn’t the most graceful exit but Ronan had to get out, he had to just stop and think…

He pushed past Proko, who moved into the stall with K, already getting on his knees before Ronan had even left the bathroom. Before the door closed he could hear K, his voice almost tender as he praised Prokopenko. Ronan pushed down the ache in his chest and ran.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: this update contains disturbing nightmares & NSFW content at the end

_At what point_ Ronan thought as he climbed the stairs to the Aglionby bell tower _am I going to stop running from all this shit?_ Every time he saw Kavinsky it was like he became this highly flammable object and all he wanted was to be consumed and left in ashes, but he kept resurrecting and coming back to the same problems, amplified by the weight of another secret. Ronan had never been to confession but he felt the deep, driving need to tell someone, anyone, what was going on. He didn’t want absolution or forgiveness, he just wanted, _needed_ transparency. Kavinsky was supposed to be an escape valve but Ronan felt more fucked up now than he had before.

Ronan reached the top of the tower and pulled himself up into the rafters. The cramped space was dusty, covered in cobwebs and festooned with abandoned bird nests. As on-campus hiding places went it got a high score since it was never visited by faculty and, outside of the hourly tolling of the bells, it was usually isolated. Ronan lay down on the rafters, one arm tucked beneath his head. The support beams above him were densely decorated with graffiti from generations of Aglionby boys. He reached up and idly traced the initials N.C., which were sloppily carved next to the more tidy B.W. Nearby was a rough depiction of a raven in flight; Ronan had carved that one his first year at the school, just after meeting Gansey and learning about his quest. At the time their friendship had been so _new_ and he had wanted to immortalize it somehow. Gansey had liked the gesture; he had added a small crown next to it and then they left their initials, twining above the pictures: R. L. and G. Ronan touched the G, digging his fingernails into the wood. At what point had he let this distance crawl between him and Gansey?

Ronan draped his arm over his eyes, his mind spinning. He had just gotten a handjob from Kavinsky in the fucking bathroom and he couldn’t stop worrying about _Gansey_? Or worrying in general. Ronan felt severely betrayed; sex was supposed to make you stop stressing, not send you spiraling into even more tortured introspection. For a brief moment he could understand K’s drug-fueled haze, if you were always high then you couldn’t focus on all the things that made you miserable. Hell, it was the reason he drank. _Pathetic_. And yet Ronan kept coming back to what Gansey would think, what he would _say_ if he knew. Or how he would look. It was enough to make Ronan want to eviscerate himself. _God damn it. Why couldn’t he just have this and not fucking worry?_

Ronan gripped the board he was laying on and banged the back of his head against it, once, twice, three times. It hurt but wasn’t enough to bruise. But it did daze him a bit, knocked the world softly out of focus and let him find that door into unconsciousness.

 _He dreamed of the Barns, the fields populated by his father’s herd of cows. They stood asleep in the tall grass, bees buzzing around them. He thought he saw someone at the edge of field, where the trees encroached, waving to him. Impossible to identify them from this distance. For a heart stopping moment Ronan thought_ Father. _He ran, ran through the grass, tripping on briars that sprouted up, grasping at his heels. The trees retreated, the ground turned to mud, turned to quicksand. The bees became wasps, their buzzing harsh and loud in his ears as he sank down, down, down. The person wasn’t waving anymore. They walked forward slowly, watching. Closer and closer and Ronan could identify the person by his white shades, his slender build, his taunting smile. “K—” he shouted but the mud was in his mouth and his nose and god he was drowning in the earth—he was done for—_

Someone was grabbing his ankle, shaking him, saying his name. Ronan surfaced, disoriented and coughing, his lungs starving for air. There was the lingering taste of earth in his mouth and Ronan could feel the stinging burn of scratches on his skin. _Fuck_. He was losing it, totally and completely losing it.

“Ronan? Are you okay?”

Ronan vaguely recognized the voice. He tilted his head to the side and there was Jiang, looking up at him, one hand still gripping Ronan’s ankle. Ronan felt a surge of irrational irritation. Jiang was so fucking pretty and it offended Ronan on some level that he wasn’t completely aware of. It was the way Jiang wore his hair long, pulling it into different styles and braids; it was how he did that thing with eyeliner and eyeshadow when he was off campus; it was the clothes he wore; it was the black or red nail polish he brushed on for the weekends. _Too pretty_.

“I’m fine,” Ronan groaned and lowered himself off the beam to the platform. Jiang reached out and steadied him when he stumbled.

“Dude, no offense, but you are _not_ fine,” Jiang persisted. He gave Ronan a searching look, biting his lower lip. Ronan brushed him off and turned away. “Look, I know it’s not my business but…you need to be careful with K.”

Ronan whirled around and glared at him. “Who fucking asked you?” he spat.

Jiang held up his hands, palms out in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, dude, chill. I’m just trying to help you out.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, clearly,” Jiang scoffed. “It’s totally healthy to get shitfaced with K when you’re clearly going through something.”

Ronan could not believe that he was having a conversation with Jiang. He couldn’t believe that one of Kavinsky’s crew _dared_ to lecture _him_ on his lifestyle choices. It was so far from what he expected of reality that he began to doubt if he was even awake. He took a deep breath because he was seconds away from beating the shit out of Jiang and that wouldn’t keep him in anyone’s good graces.

“Jiang. Let me break this down for you: This Is Definitely Not Your Business. So kindly fuck off. Or do you want me to tell K about how you’re trying to sabotage him?”

Jiang laughed, disbelieving. “Oh, you’ll tell on me? That’s cute, Lynch. God, you’re nothing like him.”

“I know I’m not like Kavinsky—” Ronan yelled, exasperated, confused.

“I’m not talking about K! I’m talking about your brother!” Jiang shouted back.

They stood there for a moment, glaring, postures poised for a fight.

“The fuck?” Ronan demanded.

“Declan!” Jiang whisper shouted, his voice intense. “You are not a thing like your older brother. Do you even know what he’s going through right now? Do you even care how he feels?”

Ronan shook his head violently. “No. No. NO. We are _not_ talking about my family. Fuck you, man.” Ronan grabbed his backpack and made his way to the steps.

Jiang followed him, his pretty face turning red with anger. “Declan’s worried! And you won’t even speak to him!”

Ronan got in Jiang’s face, grabbed his tie and pulled his head down, bringing his ear to Ronan’s lips. “Shut up,” he hissed. “I don’t know what relationship you have with my brother but you will not speak to me about him again or I will give you the worst beating of your life _and_ I’ll key that precious Supra you love so much.” Jiang made a gagging sound, the tie straggling him. Ronan shoved him away and took off down the stairs, skirting the edges of the buildings, his thoughts deafened by the roar of senseless, useless rage. He made it to the river, his pulse pounding, as the bell finally tolled out the hour; Jiang was late attending to his duties. Ronan collapsed on the dock, shaking. The bell, the river, the whole damn campus felt like a prison and he hated it on the same profound level that he hated the discord that had ruined his relationship with his brother. Everything was fucked. And Jiang wanted him to give up his one outlet. Like hell.

—–

If Gansey noticed that Ronan had ditched most of his classes he didn’t say anything. He had been more preoccupied recently, his Glendower research stalling. When Gansey was acutely stressed, as he was at the moment, he turned inward. It made it seem like he wasn’t actually in Monmouth at all; his still, brooding form hunched over his model Henrietta. Noah had been listless ever since his episode and either stuck close to Gansey or shut himself up in his room. He had been giving Ronan the cold shoulder ever since Ronan had gone to Kavinsky’s substance party. Altogether it made Monmouth feel empty, cold, and unwelcoming. It was as barren and bleak as the winter landscape. Ronan hated it.

Alone in his room Ronan read over K’s texts, studied the pics he had sent until his phone was burning hot in his hand and the battery was nearly dead, the glow from the screen the only light in the darkness. Ronan finally drifted off clutching the phone, his body aching, his mind spinning. He was in no fit state for anything, especially dreaming but the dreams still came.

_The forest was darkening to dusk, the trees crowding, the dark, bare branches creaking. This was not his forest: it was an alien thing, alive and grasping. He heard a bellow of pain, so guttural and raw that he felt the anguish of it wrack his body. Ronan raced toward the sound. He heard it again and again, then the crashing of something large moving through the trees. A large buck stumbled through the forest towards him. Its sides heaved, its nostrils flared with its fast, agonized exhalations. Blood splattered its hide, oozed from large slashes on its hindquarters, gushed from the ravaged wounds on its skull where its antlers had been ripped off. Ronan fell to his knees, his stomach twisting in horror. He vomited into the snow. The beast’s motions mirrored Ronan’s: it collapsed and blood poured from its mouth. Ronan crawled towards the deer, through the vomit, the snow, the blood. He reached out a shaking hand to touch the creature’s hide, the deer whimpered and Ronan began to cry. His grief was eclipsed with terror when the **thing** that had wounded the animal emerged from the trees. It was like the devil, its skin the dark of abandoned wells, it wore the buck’s horns on its skull. Its face—Ronan threw up again, staggering backwards, his hands slipping in the slush. It wore Niall’s face, the skin white and cracked like old plaster, crumbling. Eyes like flames stared down at Ronan. It opened its mouth, wider and wider and Ronan screamed and screamed and screamed._

Ronan woke up with his body drenched in sweat, curled up in the fetal position. He lunged for his trashcan and threw up, gagging on bile. He clutched the can to his chest, panting, eyes clenched shut. He could see it all so vividly: the deer, the devil, the _face_. “Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit, Jesus fuck…” Ronan whispered over and over, a mindless litany as he stared into nothing.

When he could think again Ronan crawled back to his bed and rooted through the blankets until he found his phone. The battery was in the red but he didn’t care. With trembling fingers he tapped out a brief text: _bad night_. The reply was almost instantaneous: _on the way_. Ronan stood on shaky legs and pulled on clothes and found a nearly empty bottle of Listerine and thoroughly rinsed his mouth. He had only just pulled on his boots when he got a new text: _outside_.

It was after 3am on a Monday night. Ronan snuck out of Monmouth, too preoccupied to grab a jacket, to bring his phone. He made it down the stairs, out to the road, and into Kavinsky’s Evo. He was so done with everything. Nowhere was safe, especially not his dreams.

Kavinsky didn’t ask him questions, he just drove, fast and reckless. Ronan didn’t pay attention to where they were going; he stared blindly out the window, Kavinsky’s music crashing against his ears, drowning him, numbing him.

They skidded into a drift, the Evo fishtailing dangerously, the inertia pressing Ronan into the car door. They were off road, the headlights revealing an empty field. They were at the old fair grounds.

The car finally stopped and the shock of not moving jerked Ronan out of his tortured thoughts. He risked a look at K. Kavinsky was slouched in his seat, his hands draped casually over the steering wheel. His large, dark eyes were almost closed. A cigarette drooped from his lips; Ronan didn’t remember if K had been smoking all along but now the smell of the smoke was overwhelming in the car, making the space feel too small and intimate. The only illumination was the glow of lights from the dash and what little light the stars provided; the moon was new and hiding. Ash fell from K’s cigarette and he took a long inhale before breathing out the smoke through his nose. He wasn’t looking at Ronan and Ronan worried that maybe Jiang had mentioned their fight.

The fight…it brought everything rushing back. Only this morning he had been locked in a bathroom stall with K while K had gotten him off. Ronan felt his face warm with the memory, felt his whole body responding. Suddenly it was like the mood shifted, like cracking a glow stick. The air in the car crackled and Ronan felt every hair on his body stand up, felt goose bumps ripple over his chilled skin. Kavinsky was _looking_ at him.

Ronan moved. He didn’t think about it, he just acted. He stretched over the console, wound one hand into Kavinsky’s hair and kissed him. The kiss was bruising, violent but K went with it, kissing Ronan back, letting him bite his lip bloody. It wasn’t enough. Ronan’s mouth ached. He tasted blood on his tongue and he wanted more. Something vicious was stirring in him, clawing out of his nightmares. It was frightening, it was exhilarating. Ronan pulled at Kavinsky’s shoulders, trying to haul him over the console to the passenger seat. K grinned against Ronan’s mouth and climbed over, crushing Ronan against the seat, straddling him.

It was quickly apparent that this was not the most comfortable position for either of them. Kavinsky crawled into the backseat and Ronan followed. They were like two snakes, tangling, biting, strangling. Ronan pulled Kavinsky on top of him, wrapping one leg around K, dragging him in close. They were both scratched up, bleeding a little, shirts wadded up on the floor. Kavinsky kissed Ronan breathless but it wasn’t enough.

“K,” Ronan rasped, the first words they had spoken, “choke me.” He could feel K’s hesitation in the way he pulled back, his body and expression shrouded in the near total darkness. The dull racket of Kavinsky’s music pounded around them. Ronan dug his short nails into K’s back, dragging down to the top of his jeans. “I trust you,” Ronan added, trying to reassure them both.

K’s voice was hoarse, scratchy. “Not too much,” he cautioned Ronan, his hands wrapping around his throat, thumbs pressing in on either side of Ronan’s windpipe. Ronan groaned, hips moving against K’s. Kavinsky said something incredibly filthy and Ronan felt like he had been dipped in napalm. He was burning, burning, burning. K’s hands tightened around his neck and it was so good, just what Ronan hoped it would be, his body straining against K’s, their kiss stealing what little oxygen he had.

It was, without a doubt, the best orgasm Ronan had ever experienced. His mind felt blissfully blank. K was still collapsed on top of him, breathing hard, mouthing curses against Ronan’s sore neck. Of course K wanted more, always more and more, but Ronan turned him down. It was enough. The nightmares, his stress, his bad memories—they were gone. It was a temporary fix but for tonight it was enough.

Later, Ronan would wonder how he could ever be so naïve.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: This update contains self-loathing, self-harm, public drunkenness, and some mild nsfw content.

Ronan lost all track of time. One day limped into another night, dragged on to another morning. He wasn’t sleeping. The only time he could push his body to rest was after doing something strenuous with Kavinsky, which meant he was spending more time at the K’s mansion, or in the backseat of the Evo, than he was at Monmouth. Gansey didn’t ask and Ronan didn’t tell, creeping back to the warehouse to shower and change before enduring endless hours at Aglionby. His homework was barely legible, but it was done. He forced himself to stare at his textbooks, tired bloodshot eyes glazing over. This was no way to live.

What Ronan couldn’t understand—what he tried not to think about when his head grew too heavy to keep up, when he slumped on his desk and sucked at K’s dreamed up candy to stay awake—was why he never had nightmares with K, and why, when they were apart, his nightmares always came back worse than ever. He didn’t know if K was helping or exacerbating the problem. He had no control in his dreams, not anymore. K, in a rare moment of gentleness, had eased Ronan’s head onto his lap and massaged his scalp with his rough fingers. “You need to relax, Lynch,” he had said. “You got to go into dreams with your head on straight—well, you know what I mean. If you’re a mess up here,” he tapped Ronan’s forehead, “you’ll be an absolute fuckup in your dreams.” Ronan had grunted acknowledgment, eyes closed. When he woke up hours later he was being spooned by K, a blanket draped over them, the lights from the TV washing the room in deep blues and purples and greens. K’s arms were wrapped around his waist and chest and Ronan was torn between the feelings of claustrophobia and comfort. K muttered something in his sleep, hands tightening in Ronan’s shirt. That was enough to keep him on the couch, enough to send him back to dreams that were more erotic than disturbing.

Days strung themselves along and it was Friday again. Ronan followed Gansey through the boisterous halls, stumbling over his feet in his utter exhaustion. Gansey looked almost as wrecked as Ronan, though he still managed to wear his sleeplessness like a fashion statement: Golden Boy Not Yet Too Tired to Function. The crew team descended on them, the eager athletic boys hanging off Gansey, trying to get him to come party with them. Ronan wasn’t paying attention. He was scanning the halls for K. He was beyond caring that he _wanted_ to see K, past the point of worrying about what that meant. He saw Declan instead; his back was to Ronan, his head tilted down as he talked to someone. The set of his shoulders was odd, his entire posture off. Ronan couldn’t place it, what was different, until he saw who Declan was talking with—Jiang. Jiang, whose long hair was falling in waves around his face, his eager face that was tilted up towards Declan, his eyes were fucking sparkling, his mouth curved into a smile. Declan reached out and tucked some of Jiang’s hair behind his ear, making Jiang blush and for some reason this all made Ronan furious. Gansey was still trying to beg off of whatever party the team was going to and Ronan couldn’t stand to be here any longer. He left, his anger building and building so that he felt he might combust. He needed to get the fuck out of here. He _needed_ to see Kavinsky.

Ronan drove like Kavinsky—like a bat out of hell. He still had control when he was behind the wheel of the BMW; he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to his father’s car. The music pounded from the speakers: loud, repetitive, pulsing electronica. Ronan wished it was night already, wished that the day would just die and give way to darkness. He wanted to lose himself in the black, howling roads, or in K’s ravaging kisses and touch. He couldn’t have one, so he’d settle for the other.

The mansion looked abandoned. No cars in the drive or garage. Ronan sat in the BMW, turning down the music slightly, and wavered between breaking in or staying put. He had never turned up like this, during the day with no advanced warning.  Ronan chewed at his leather bands and wrestled his tie loose. His hands were trembling. Everything reminded him of K: K on his knees, grabbing Ronan’s wrist and sucking on the bands; K yanking off his tie and using it to bind Ronan’s hands…even the squeak of the leather seat as he shifted his weight was heavy with memories.

With a groan Ronan got out of the car, slamming the door harder than necessary. He went to the front door, tried the handle, and was surprised to find that the door wasn’t locked. Ronan pushed the door open and peered into the empty entranceway. The silence was profound and eerie.

“Hello?” Ronan called out. He shut the door behind him, closing it as quietly as possible. It felt like he was intruding, regardless of how many times he had crashed here. “K? Umm…Ms. Kavinsky? Anyone home?”

The ticking of the grandfather clock in the desolate sitting room was the only noise, other than the quiet whirring of the fridge. Ronan crept through the house. It was so _clean_ , sterile. Not for the first time Ronan noticed that there were no family pictures on the walls, no personalized decorating. It was the type of house that came straight out of the pages of a design catalog, devoid of human touch. Ronan made his way to Kavinsky’s room, even though he knew he wouldn’t be there; it too was clean. Clearly it was the work of a cleaning service. The basement, however, was still its own distressed mess, only the trash and plates and bottles were removed, spills cleaned. Ronan poked through K’s extensive collection of alcohol but picked beer as usual. He wandered out to the empty pool, climbed in and lay down in the deep end.

It was cold and the sky was that pristine, bleak blue that was only achievable in the winter. Ronan downed one beer and pried the top off another using his back teeth. He took a long swallow, the cold liquid working its strange alchemy and building a warm buzz in his stomach and chest and head. Ronan stared at the sky and thought about his father. And it was all too much: the aching loneliness, the confusion, the nightmares, the powerlessness when he _should_ be powerful, in control. _It was all so god damned fucked and he was the shittiest excuse for a son, for a dreamer_. Ronan felt tears of frustration pricking at his dry, tired eyes. His head was swimming and it was too much. Ronan smashed the beer bottle against the cement floor of the pool, glass and beer exploding out in a meaningless pattern. The neck of the bottle was in his hand and Ronan couldn’t stop staring at the sharp, jagged edge, he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to stab the shards into his arms. Would it be worse than the night horrors? Or the same? It was all self-inflicted either way.

His hands were steady as he unbuttoned his cuffs, as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. He pressed the bottle to his left wrist, right below the leather bands, and visualized the cuts he would need to make. He wasn’t afraid, it was like he had transcended all emotions and was operating on self-destructive instinct. He pressed down—

“LYNCH!” Kavinsky’s voice was loud and triumphant, muffled slightly. He was still in the house. Ronan dropped the bottle and hastily dragged his sleeves down. Blood seeped from the shallow cuts on his forearm but maybe K wouldn’t notice.

“LYNCH! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FUCKING DREAMBOY?”

Ronan couldn’t help but scoff. _Fucking dreamboy?_ If that was an endearment it made him miss K’s casual insults. Ronan climbed out of the pool, still operating in that ice-cold fuck everything state of mind. He felt both in control and not, it was like an out of body experience.

Kavinsky was in the basement, still yelling and cursing, looking for Ronan in wildly impractical places, like under the pool table or in the nest of beanbags. He was flinging beanbags around when he turned and saw Ronan standing in the doorway. His expression was impishly gleeful. He looked high.

“Lynch! Making yourself at home, I see.” He prowled towards Ronan. He looked like trouble personified, his manic energy practically sparking off him. His hands were on Ronan’s waist and he was pulling Ronan’s shirt up, pushing it over his chest, tugging and scrambling with the wrinkled fabric. Ronan laughed, gripping the back of his shirt and yanking it over his head. K dropped the shirt of the floor, his hands skimming over Ronan’s chest and stomach, pausing here and there to tweak dark bruises and bite marks, making Ronan wince. And then he noticed the blood on Ronan’s wrist, smeared by the shirt. The cuts were barely bleeding but of course K put it together. His fingers dug into Ronan’s forearm hard enough to bruise.

“The fuck?” He snarled, staring into Ronan’s conflicted eyes.

“It was an accident,” Ronan deadpanned.

“Bullshit.” He was squeezing Ronan’s arm so hard that his knuckles were white; it was more painful than the small wounds Ronan had made. “If you want to hurt,” Kavinsky said, “then let me have the honors. For fuck’s sake, Ronan…this…”

Kavinsky brought Ronan’s wrist to his mouth and licked the blood away, his eyes never straying from Ronan’s. Ronan felt a chill chase its way down his spine and he was grounded again. When K finally kissed him there was blood on his tongue and Ronan swallowed down the metallic taste.

Kavinsky pushed Ronan into the beanbags, falling on top of him, kissing him messily, his hands busy with Ronan’s belt buckle.

“C’mon,” K breathed, “let’s get all sweaty and see how many times we can get off before the guys show up.”

Ronan bit down of K’s lip, drawing a groan from him. “You’re on,” he rasped. K’s answering laugh was low and intimate and Ronan could feel himself catching, the smolder between them igniting.

—-

They managed to get off three times each before Skov and Swan and Proko and Jiang came over.  Proko had been considerate enough to give K a fifteen minute warning, enough time for them to steal a brief shower and change. Ronan had insisted on showering on his own, much to K’s annoyance.

“Lynch, you realize that I’ve had your dick in my mouth, right? The fuck are you so shy for?”

Ronan blushed. He was _never_ going to get used to K’s dirty mouth. “I’m _not_ shy. I just…it’s like the other thing.”

“The other thing? You mean the ‘we can’t mess around but not fuck’ thing?” K asked. He was standing in the shower, completely wet and naked, his face set in a pissed off scowl.

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “I’m not Proko, I’m not _yours_ , K. And I don’t want to do…that…unless it’s with someone who I’m like committed to.”

Kavinsky sighed loudly. “Jesus, I can’t believe you, Lynch. This is a Catholic thing, isn’t it? Saving yourself or some shit…”

“No! This is a _me_ thing. What we’re doing…it’s just messing around. We’re not serious. We’re not together. And, as I’ve said before, you can fuck anyone else, just not me.”

“Okay, fine,” Kavinsky threw his hands up. “Fucking fine. You won’t take a shower with me because?”

“Because I’m not your fucking boyfriend, K, I’m not getting in the shower with you. Now shut up and get a move on.” Ronan slammed the door and waited in the hall. He was a mess and he didn’t want the other guys to see him like this. Yes, they all knew what was going on but it was one thing to know, and another to see evidence. He wished K would stop trying to argue with him about sex. He had drawn the lines very firmly and it was exhausting for K to keep picking at them.

Ronan found out, after he had cleaned up and joined the guys, that the party that everyone had been talking about was happening _here_ and not at the fairgrounds. It seemed like the worst possible idea. Ronan had visions of the mansion completely trashed, of cops descending on the party after multiple noise complaints, of drunk crew boys toppling into the pool and breaking bones. It sounded chaotic and risky—aka Kavinsky’s idea of a good time. Ronan helped himself to more drinks while Skov, Swan, and Jiang got busy setting up. K had dreamed up everything they would need: drinks, drugs, endless Cheetos. Skov got a fire going on the pristine lawn; Jiang set up the sound system; Swan manhandled things that required heavy lifting. Ronan kept busy drinking away his feelings and pretending that he didn’t notice that K and Proko were noticeably absent.

“Hey, Ronan,” Jiang was standing next to him, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked awkward, shifting from side to side. “Umm, just wanted to give you a heads up that Declan might be coming tonight.”

Ronan stared at Jiang. He was biting his lower lip, which, Ronan noticed, was glistening with gloss. Ronan closed his eyes, praying for patience. Really, it was none of his business; it did not matter. “Did you have to invite him?” Ronan asked.

“Yes,” Jiang said. “I…I like him. Declan. And I think—”

Ronan cut him off. “Yeah, he likes you. Probably. I dunno, I saw him talking to you today after class.”

Jiang brightened. “I don’t want to fool myself, but I think there’s something there.”

Ronan shrugged. “I thought he was straight but what do I know? We don’t talk.”

“Hmmm.” Jiang toed the cement. He was wearing leather boots, laced up to his knees. They suited him. “It’s not like I’m asking your blessing,” he mumbled. “I just don’t want you to be surprised if he shows.”

Ronan gave Jiang a look. “Oh, he’ll show.” Jiang’s smile made Ronan feel angry all over again. He stalked off.

And it was probably just his luck, hours later, as the party was really kicking off and Ronan was lurking in the shadows, downing drinks and longing for the abandon of open roads and dangerous speeds, that Declan did make an appearance, with _Gansey_ in tow. Ronan immediately dropped, hiding behind a deckchair. He watched as Jiang found Declan and they hugged. Jiang took Declan by the hand and got him a drink. They were laughing and the tight lines of worry that so often creased Declan’s forehead disappeared. He looked happy. _Un-fucking-expected_.

Gansey was scanning the crowd. Aglionby students mixed with kids from Mountain High and older, shady looking folks. The crew team found Gansey and pulled him into their game of beer pong. Gansey may have looked the part of a frat bro but Ronan was probably the only person there who could tell how deeply uncomfortable Gansey was with the scene. Gansey, who he had barely talked to all week, Gansey who had been so quiet and stressed, shouldering all his burdens alone. Ronan felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with a liberal dose of guilt. He stood and weaved his way through the crowd. Gansey didn’t see him coming and startled when Ronan grabbed his elbow.

“Ronan!” Gansey’s face went slack with relief. “Oh thank God. I was worried…” Gansey’s pleasure faded into disapproval. “Jesus, Ronan, you smell like a brewery. How much have you had?” He took the bottle from Ronan’s hand, tipping the beer onto the ground.

“Hey!” Ronan protested. “C’mon Gansey, why’d you do that?” He thought that he might be slurring.

“Why? Because you’re drunk.” Gansey was shaking his head. His face was stern, set in disapproval. “Let’s go. I’m taking you home.”

Ronan pulled out of Gansey’s grip, backing away. “No.”

“No? Really, Ronan? What’s there for you _here_? At least drink at Monmouth.” Gansey stepped forward, reaching for him. Ronan dodged drunkenly, stumbling into a dark haired girl. She cried out, her drink spilling on her top.

“Sorry,” Ronan mumbled. He suddenly felt very drunk, but that didn’t stop him from fleeing from Gansey. _Fleeing_. _Christ, what a night._

“Ronan! Ronan, come back!” Gansey was shouting. So un-Ganseylike.

“I’m not going back!” Ronan protested. “Drinking alone at Monmouth? I’ve _been_ doing that, Gansey. And you know what? It’s fucking miserable.”

“Ronan, please, don’t…stop walking away from me!” Gansey used his Authority Voice. Typically it would stop Ronan in his tracks but not tonight, not now that he was buzzing on countless drinks.

“You’re not my dad, Gansey,” Ronan yelled. He didn’t realize he was yelling until Declan was there, until Gansey was whispering, “Stop yelling.”

“Ronan, you’ve had enough, God what a mess.” Declan. Declan’s face was sliding in front of him. There were two Declans?

“Fuck you,” Ronan spat.

Declan absorbed the words like they were nothing. “Dad would be ashamed of you.” He hissed the poison into Ronan’s ear, six words and Ronan’s blood ran cold and he saw red.

Then Declan was on the ground, hands over his face. There was blood on his mouth, he was spitting blood on the grass. Jiang was hanging off his arm, holding him back. Gansey was up in Ronan’s face, hands on his shoulders, pushing him towards the house. It was so loud. So many fucking people. _Dad would be ashamed of you_. Black and silence. Color and noise. And someone laughing high and wild. Arms around his waist. _That smell…K._

“Damn, you Lynch boys are the real fucking deal. It’s like Fight Club up in here.”

Ronan tried to focus on K’s face, on his words, they were blurring like watercolors. Had he ever been this drunk? _Fuck_.

“Hey, Proko, give the crowd something else to talk about, yeah? Jiang, get back to the music! Gansey, take that Lynch home. He’s fucking my vibe.” Ronan was vaguely aware that he had an arm slung over Kavinsky’s shoulders, that K was holding him up. Nothing would stay still. It was like being on a merry-go-round during an earthquake. Ronan felt like throwing up. It wasn’t fun anymore, if it ever had been.

“EVERYONE! SHOTS! TAKE SOME MOTHERFUCKING SHOTS!” There was a concussive blast of cheering. The bass got louder; Ronan could feel it in his chest. He was being led away from the noise, the cold vanishing.

“Up, up, up,” K instructed and Ronan tried to comply, staggering up the stairs.

Ronan wanted to ask why they had to go upstairs when there was a perfectly comfortable couch in the basement, but he couldn’t get the words out. He tightened his hold on Kavinsky, leaning on him as they lurched forward.

K’s voice was hoarse, raspy. He was joking around, asking Ronan just _how many_ drinks he had had? Ronan had no idea.

The bedspread was cool and soft. The pillow smelled like K. Ronan squeezed the cover in his fists, trying to anchor himself as the room spun. K was laughing, his hand on Ronan’s back. He was saying something? Then he was gone. And it was all darkness after that.

_…to be continued…_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is the very unhappy ending of this fic. It deals with non-con (the aftermath, not the actual event), self-loathing/suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, and one person’s very unhealthy coping mechanisms. (Further notes/explanations at the end if you choose to read this update.)

Pain was the first thing that registered for Ronan. His skull felt like it was being peeled apart, the agony so real that it made him want to vomit. He didn’t want to move, his brain sending the explicit message that moving would be a bad idea. But he also wanted water to get rid of the taste in his mouth. It was a conundrum and it wouldn’t solve itself. Ronan was curled up tight in the fetal position so he tried to stretch out his legs and—

_Pain_

So intense and unexpected that he gasped, his eyes flying open. Ronan tried to breath, to get a handle on himself because _Jesus Christ no no nonononono this wasn’t happening that didn’t happen nothing happened oh god jesus fuck no no nonono_

Ronan sobbed once, the sound strangled as he pressed his face into the sheets, his teeth grinding together in anguish that went beyond the physical.

And then he wasn’t alone.

Prokopenko was kneeling by the bed, a wet washcloth wiping at Ronan’s face.

“Ronan,” his voice was quiet. “Hey, hey, look at me. Ronan, look at me.”

Ronan did. As much as he wanted to be alone, to fucking die, he _needed_ Proko there.

“Here, have some water.” Proko guided a bendy straw to his lips and Ronan drank. The tears started and wouldn’t stop but Ronan was too wrecked to care.

“I got some pain meds, take these, c’mon Ronan you need to swallow them.” Ronan did. More water. Proko wiped away his tears, placed his warm palm on Ronan’s cheek. His eyes were dark and haunted, his forehead creased in worry.

“What happened?” Ronan croaked. “Where’s K?” He shivered then, suddenly cold, and it sent shocks of pain shooting through him. This… “I’m gonna be sick,” he managed, pressing a hand over his mouth as Proko lunged for the trash can. Ronan leaned into it, dry heaving. There was already vomit in the can and it smelled terrible. Ronan pushed it away, gasping. He had a vague idea that it was his vomit, which explained the sore throat and the lingering taste of death. Proko gave him more water.

“What. Happened.”

“I wasn’t here,” Proko said. It sounded like an excuse, like an apology. “I… was with the other guys. K said…” He looked away, biting his lip. “K said you were in a bad place and he was going to keep you company. He said you have nightmares like him.” Proko’s eyes were pitying. “We knew that, of course. We found you, that one night…”

“Proko,” Ronan interrupted. His head hurt, his body was… “Please. You know what I’m asking.”

“I wasn’t here!” This time his words came out as a shout, angry and broken. “What do you want me to say, Ronan?” Now Proko was crying.

“I want to know what happened to me!” Ronan yelled. “Because I don’t fucking remember! And I… _God_ …” His voice broke. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —think it.

“Oh my god.” Proko’s face paled, his hands flew up to cover his mouth. “You don’t remember…oh my god…oh my god…oh… _fuck_!”

Proko got up and started pacing. Just looking at him made Ronan feel nauseated.

“K left this morning, like at dawn. I was in the basement with Skov and Swan and he said he had to go. He sent me up here to watch you. He didn’t say why. _Oh god_. _He didn’t say_. _Shit!_ I thought…” Proko’s voice was hushed like he didn’t want to say the words either. “I thought you and he had finally, uh, fucked. God, I’m sorry! Ronan…Ronan, I’m sorry.”

Ronan shut his eyes, his throat working as he swallowed the scream that was fighting to get out. Tears leaked from his eyes and he struggled to breath around the awful weight pressing down on his lungs. _He wanted to die_. K wasn’t here. K had left him. K had _used_ him and left him because he didn’t want to deal with the aftermath. What sort of person did that? Ronan felt the burn of bile trying to climb his esophagus as his brain told him _you should have known you should have known you should have know_

Proko hovered by the bed, his fingers plucking at his cuticles until they bled. Ronan had never seen him like this: agitated, upset, strung out.

“I want to leave,” Ronan rasped. Proko stopped pacing and looked at him. “I… I need your help. I don’t think I can stand.”

Proko made a whining sound like he was in pain. But he came to Ronan and wrapped his arms under Ronan’s arms. “Take a breath,” Proko said, “we’ll stand on three. You’ll be okay, Ronan, I’ve got you. One, two, three.” Proko pulled him off the bed and to his feet. The sheet fell away and Ronan was not surprised to find that he was naked. Proko looked away. The pain was about what Ronan expected and his legs trembled as he leaned on Proko and they staggered to the bathroom. Proko got the shower running and helped Ronan in. He kept close by, in case Ronan felt sick.

Ronan turned the water as hot as it could be, which was borderline scalding, and stood under the showerhead for what felt like a very long time. He was too tired and sore to properly wash himself but he needed this, desperately needed to feel clean. The bruises on his body, the ones that he had enjoyed looking at only hours ago, now felt like a taint. He wanted to do something drastic to get rid of them, to cover them with fresh injuries, ones that came from _his_ hands. At some point he realized he was sobbing and the water was cooling.

Proko was still there. He helped Ronan dry off and dress, walked him out to his Golf and drove him back to Monmouth.

Ronan watched the houses and streets and landscape flow by but he didn’t see them. He felt absolutely destroyed and he couldn’t stop crying. Because…because… because _goddamn it he had trusted K to take care of him and this…_ Ronan didn’t have words for this betrayal. Everything was fucked.

Proko parked outside Monmouth but left the car running. Ronan stared at the warehouse, his heart aching because it looked like home but it wasn’t. And he wasn’t the kid he had been and everything was ruined and his father was dead and he was…

“I don’t want to see him,” Ronan said. His voice sounded as rough as sandpaper, it hurt to get words out. “I don’t want him to call me or text me or talk to me. Tell him, tell him to stay the fuck away from me.” Proko met his eyes and nodded. “And tell _Jiang_ to stay away from Declan. I don’t want Declan anywhere near Kavinsky, got it? I don’t want _any of you_ near me or my family, and that includes Gansey. Swear it.”

Proko swallowed, his expression solemn. “I promise you. But Ronan, I can’t control Kavinsky.”

Ronan sighed and opened the car door. “I know.” He gazed up at the dark windows of Monmouth. He thought he saw Noah peeking out for a moment. “Proko. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Ronan got out of the car, slammed the door, and limped towards Monmouth. Noah met him at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t ask any questions, he just lent Ronan his strength and helped him climb. It was torture.

“Gansey’s asleep,” Noah whispered. “I’ll cover for you later.”

Ronan nodded and they crept through the apartment to Ronan’s bedroom. It was Saturday morning. Ronan fully intended to hibernate for the rest of his life. No way was he going to church tomorrow. His stomach soured at the thought of hard wooden pews and thick incense, his mind replaying what he had done the last time he had visited the sanctuary. _Fuck_.

Noah eased Ronan down onto his bed and pulled off his boots. He brought in water and crackers. Then he hunkered down at the foot of the bed like a sad puppy.

“What are you doing?” Ronan groaned. He was barely holding onto consciousness, his raging hangover dissipating enough so that he thought he could sleep. He _needed_ to sleep but he was also dreading it. _Nightmares_.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Noah whispered.

“The fuck do you know?” Ronan growled.

“I know this is more than a hangover, Ronan.”

“Am I so transparent?” Ronan mumbled into his pillow. He didn’t want to look at Noah, didn’t want Noah looking at him.

“You’re in pain,” Noah said. “You’re hurting and you shouldn’t be alone. I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

“I don’t need—”

“You did the same for me, Ronan. Let me take care of you. No one ever takes care of you…”

That wasn’t entirely true. Gansey tried. But it had been a very long time since Ronan had wanted someone to take care of him, not since he had lived at the Barns and his mother had tended him through an intense summer fever. Noah brushed his cool hand over Ronan’s brow and it felt nice, a barely there sensation. The mattress dipped a little as Noah settled in next to him.

“Don’t—” Ronan scooted away. “Don’t get so close.” His heart was tripping. He felt a surge of anxiety pressing down on him. _I don’t remember I don’t remember I can’t I can’t I don’t know I don’t want to know I don’t_

It was hard to breathe. Noah was murmuring to him, giving him instructions to inhale and count, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Relax. Breathe. It’s okay. _Fuck it was never going to be okay_

Ronan passed out.

—-

His bedroom was dark when he woke up. Noah was still sprawled on his bed. He might have been dozing. He looked pale and sort of shimmery. There were noises coming from beyond the door. Gansey was awake and puttering about. Ronan tried stretching, moving slowly. Still sore and stiff from lying in one position for hours. His headache was gone and that was a blessing. The clear head was not. It all came rushing back, like being hit by a semi.

Ronan tried to let the trapped, helpless feeling wash over him but it stayed and built and built and built. His mind was keeping secrets from him and Ronan wasn’t sure if he wanted to know them. But he also hated not knowing. And he hated… _God_ …what _didn’t_ he hate right now?

Noah made a small sound in his sleep and rolled over so that he was facing Ronan. Okay, he didn’t hate Noah. Or Gansey. But he also never wanted to get out of bed or leave his room. Ronan grabbed the water Noah left, took a long drink, and went back to sleep.

—-

Someone was pounding on the door. Ronan sat up too quickly and then fell back onto the mattress. Moving was not happening. Ronan watched through half-closed eyes as Noah got up and trudged to the door.

“Tell Ronan to get his ass out here right now! I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing interfering with _my life_ but it needs to stop!”

It was Declan. He sounded furious. Ronan carefully turned over so his back was facing the door and listened as Noah firmly told Declan to piss off. That Ronan wasn’t well. That Ronan wouldn’t be going to church tomorrow. That if Declan had nothing nice to say to his younger brother then he should go. Ronan was impressed with Noah’s calm forcefulness.

Declan eventually stopped yelling and Gansey took a turn at calming him down. They must have gone outside because Ronan couldn’t hear them any more. Noah wandered back to the bed and sat down at the edge of the mattress.

“Thanks,” Ronan whispered.

Noah shrugged. “Declan needs someone besides you to yell at him sometimes. Do you know what he was so mad about?”

Ronan burrowed down in the blankets. “I told Prokopenko to tell Jiang to stop seeing my brother.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know Declan swung that way.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve decided to break them up?”

“Jiang is one of Kavinsky’s.” Ronan didn’t want to elaborate. Noah stared at Ronan and put it together on his own. It was more than he deserved that Noah didn’t take the opportunity to say _I told you so_. It seemed like everyone had been warning him and warning him but he hadn’t listened and now… _fuck it was_ not _his fault_

“Ronan?”

“I’m okay.” Ronan took deep breaths. “I mean, I’ll be okay. _Shit_. It feels like I can’t fucking breathe…”

“Alright, breathe with me. Like I showed you, inhale, hold it, count, exhale. Good. Again. Inhale, exhale. Keep going.”

They went through the same routine until Ronan could breathe again. Outside Ronan could barely hear Gansey and Declan shouting, then the roar of Declan’s car peeling out.

“You’re having panic attacks,” Noah said.

“Is that what you had?” Ronan asked, remembering the night he thought that Noah was dying.

“No, that was…different. But I’ve seen this before. Ronan, you should get help.”

“Fuck no,” Ronan snarled. It was bad enough that K and Proko knew, that Noah guessed. No one else was going to know about this. Ever.

“Ronan,” Noah’s voice was tight with worry. “You’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, it seems like wrong has been done to you. Have you considered that? This isn’t something you can just bury—”

“Noah.” Ronan sat up, even though it hurt. He made his voice as menacing as he could. “Shut up. Now. I am _not_ telling anyone. I’ll handle this. Can I trust you to keep this a secret?”

Noah shrank back, looking heart-broken. “You know I can keep a secret,” he whispered. “But as your friend, I’m asking you to please, please talk to someone.”

“No. And this is the last time we’re discussing it. Gansey can’t know. My brothers sure as fuck can’t know. Noah, I’m depending on you, man, don’t let me down.”

Noah nodded once and that was that.

—–

Ronan spent the rest of the weekend locked in his room. Noah told Gansey that Ronan had the flu; Ronan guessed that Gansey was probably interpreting his seclusion as ‘Ronan is massively hungover and also pouting about making a scene at Kavinsky’s party.’ Not that it mattered. Ronan felt the stinging burn of shame either way. He had been an absolute jerk to Gansey and he wasn’t looking forward to seeing him after that. As for the rest…Ronan shut down that line of thought. Hard. He had been continuously slamming mental doors all weekend.

Monday morning came and Ronan finally had to emerge from hiding. He waited until Gansey had gone to crew practice before leaving his room. It was very early, just after dawn. Ronan stumbled into the bathroom, stripped, and climbed into the shower. He avoided his reflection in the mirror. After a few moments of seeing the bruises and scratches on his body he turned off the lights and showered in the dark, fiercely scrubbing his skin until it hurt. He had quite a bit of scruff on his face and he turned on the lights long enough to shave his face and give his scalp a fresh buzz. He rinsed off and felt…empty.

He had lost so much when his father was killed and he had been so angry. Now he had lost… he stopped thinking and dressed as quickly as possible. Ronan made himself choke down a Pop-Tart even though he wasn’t really hungry. Noah passed him a glass of orange juice and some painkillers; Ronan was feeling better but he still was achy and he didn’t want to think about it.

Aglionby was startlingly the same. Ronan didn’t know why he thought it would be different. But he knew that he _felt_ different. It felt like he had an invisible target on his back and he was just waiting for _something_ to take him out. The uniform, which he hated on a good day, was confining and irritating as fuck today. Ronan pulled at the tie, trying to keep it loose. His top button was undone but he could still feel the collar around his neck and it made him want to scream.

Boys rushed by him, conversations mumbled in the usual Monday morning exhaustion. Ronan tried not to shrink from contact, to keep his head up. He was _Ronan Lynch_. He couldn’t fall apart. But he needed Gansey, badly. Because Gansey was the perfect shield and support. Because Gansey would forgive him and they could move on. Because Gansey wouldn’t pry.

Ronan scanned the courtyard, looking for the perfect, gleaming hair of Aglionby’s golden boy. He finally spotted Gansey over by the entrance to the English wing. It seemed like Gansey must have been waiting for him because he brightened up when he saw Ronan approaching.

“I thought you might skip today,” Gansey greeted him. “Since you were sick all weekend.”

“I got better,” Ronan replied. Gansey smirked at the old Monty Python reference. “Look, I’m sorry I was a dick Friday night.”

Gansey looked surprised; Ronan didn’t really do apologies but he wanted Gansey to forget about Friday, to move on and not question what else may have happened that night.

“Apology accepted,” Gansey said. He clapped Ronan on the back and led the way to their classroom. “By the way, you should probably talk to Declan. He came by and was, ah, rather angry.”

“I heard,” Ronan said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it out.”

Gansey laughed. “You mean that you’ll fight and then continue ignoring each other.”

“Pretty much,” Ronan agreed. Gansey’s presence was already putting him at ease. For a moment Ronan thought that it would be…not okay…but manageable. He could keep it together.

Then he saw Kavinsky.

It all happened so fast. His vision tunneled, dark spots creeping in at the edges, his breath coming in gasps and the feeling like he had been punched in the chest. Ronan fell against the wall, banging his shoulder hard. He could hear Gansey, barely, like he was underwater. Panic attack. Noah had warned him this would happen.

Ronan braced one hand on Gansey’s shoulder and one hand on the wall. Gansey was asking him something but Ronan couldn’t make out the words.

“Just dizzy,” he slurred. “Probably from being sick.”

Gansey nodded and guided him into their classroom. They sat and Ronan put his head on the desk. Gansey hurried to the front of the room and held a conference with their teacher, making excuses for Ronan. Ronan gripped the edges of the desk and practiced his breathing. He felt sick all over again, even though he had only eaten a single Pop-Tart.

By the time Gansey came back Ronan was able to sit up. He tried to keep it together during class even though there was no hope of him actually retaining any of the lecture. He thought about what Noah had told him, to take it hour by hour, minute by minute if he had to. Minute by minute. Ronan didn’t even know _why_ he was trying.

—-

Somehow Ronan made it through the rest of the day. He didn’t see Kavinsky again, though he received several texts, all of which he erased without opening. He had more panic attacks but he didn’t pass out so there was that. He was so wiped that he fell asleep ridiculously early, just after sundown. Noah was sitting at his desk, keeping watch, and that was good. Ronan slept and dreamed.

 _The forest was filled with light, tiny fireflies twinkling in the long grass and the tree branches. Ronan heard the croak of ravens but he couldn’t see them through the forest canopy. The trees called to him, whispering in their strange language. His heart ached. The Orphan Girl was waiting for him next to the pool, her tiny hooves soaking in the clear water. Ronan sat down next to her and dipped his feet in. The water was cool but not cold. Tiny silver fish swam up and nibbled at his toes. Orphan Girl leaned against him, her head on his shoulder and Ronan couldn’t stop the tears from falling. The girl brushed them away and held onto his arm. Ronan felt a tightness in his chest, different from the panic attacks. He looked down and watched, with horrified fascination as a raven emerged from his chest. It didn’t hurt though it did feel like his heartlines were being stretched to the breaking point. The raven perched on Ronan’s knee, a scroll clasped in its beak. Ronan took the scroll, holding it to his lips._ “Kerah,” _the Orphan Girl said,_ “Kerah.”

Ronan woke up with the scroll in his hand. Once he could move he unrolled it; Noah stood behind him and watched. On the creamy parchment was an intricate drawing, done in black ink, a design so complex and perfect that it could only come from a dreamer’s heart. It told a story of loss and suffering, of rebirth and new beginnings. Ronan thought it would make a perfect tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closing notes: So you might be asking yourself at this point what happened? Because Ronan doesn’t remember and we don’t get K’s side of the story. K will maintain that he is not in the wrong, that he asked and Ronan said yes. Ronan is quite right in his assertion that he could not give consent because he was dead drunk, to the point that he can’t even remember what happened. Also Ronan had been very clear throughout that he didn’t want to do certain sexual things and K basically ignored all of that. Was K also drunk at the time? Yes. Does that give him an excuse? No. Does Ronan handle what happened to him in a healthy manner? No. I’m not at all implying that what Ronan does is what anyone should do in that situation. It’s just how I see this particular story unfolding. Why all this suffering? When Adam meets Ronan in Never Sleeping Again, Ronan has already gone through all of this. He’s managed to get himself together but he has a ton of unresolved problems, specifically with Kavinsky and that becomes a major plot point in that AU. Will things be addressed/handled in Never Sleeping Again? Yes.
> 
> Writing this story, particularly this last update, was really difficult. There’s a lot of dark, self-destructive behavior. The ending is awful and leaves Ronan in a pretty bad place. If you happened to read this without reading Never Sleeping Again, then just know that things do get better for Ronan. A lot better. I will also be writing a short transition story between the two fics about Ronan getting his tattoo.


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